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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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iusxcil  Mm-cli  SM.  1S61. 


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V 


O.    SI.    I  I.AYKH,    STATE    IMMXTKK. 


\  \, 


NAOMI    TORRENTE: 


THE 


HISTORY  OF  A   WOMAN. 


BT 


GEETEUDE    F.    DE    VINGUT. 


Every  dream  of  love  argues 

a  reality  in  the  world  of  supreme 

beauty.      Believe    all    that  thy  heart 

prompts,    for    everything    that   it 

seeks    exists. — PLATO. 


NEW    YOEK: 

JOHN    BRADBURN,    PUBLISHER, 

(LATE  M.  DOOLADY.) 
49    "WALKER    STREET 
1864. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1864,  by 

GERTRUDE  F.  DE  VINGUT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the   Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


Printer,  Svereoiyptr,  ami  Kliciinij 

Cailnu  J3ui!tiii\a, 
81,  83,  and  85  Cmtn  Strut. 


FS 


TOEK,  May  3,  1864. 
ESTEEMED  FRIEND — 

For  by  this  title  I  may  address  you,  though  we  have  met  only  in  the 
world  of  thought,  and  known  each  other  simply  by  the  exchange  of  our 
written  ideas.  To  you,  who  have  rendered  into  the  harmonious  language 
which  I  love,  some  of  my  earlier  productions,  I  dedicate  this  book.  The 
first  years  of  my  youth  were  linked  to  one  of  your  compatriots ;  and  around 
those  years  cluster  the  dearest  memories  of  my  life.  Is  it  strange,  then,  if, 
without  sacrificing  my  nationality,  I  should  look  upon  the  natives  of  your 
sunny  isle  almost  as  my  countrymen  ?  You  say  in  one  of  the  literary  pro 
ductions  which  from  your  distant  home  you  had  the  kindness  to  send  me  : 
"  He  vivido ;  he  amado ;  he  sufrido "  (I  have  lived,  loved,  and  suffered). 
It  is  to  you,  therefore,  and  those  who  like  you  have  deeply  felt,  that  the 
history  of  a  woman's  soul-life  will  prove  more  interesting  than  the  mere 
narrative  of  the  chances  and  occurrences  that  make  up  the  every-day,  mate 
rial  existence.  You  will  know  how  to  appreciate  whatever  merit  it  may 
possess,  and  you  will  be  indulgent  to  its  faults  for  the  sake  of  your  friend 
and  fellow  laborer  in  the  great  field  of  literature. 

GK  F.  DB  Vrnour. 
SR.  DN.  JUAN  CLEMENTE  ZENEA, 

Editor  of  La  Charanga, 

Havana. 

to 


NAOMI  TORRENTS: 
THE     HISTORY     OF     A    WOMAN. 


IP  A.H  T     I. 

CHAPTER  I. 

IN  the  small  and  very  modestly  furnished  parlor  of  a  tiny,  but 
neat  and  respectable  looking  house,  standing  alone,  a  little 
beyond  the  White  House,  in  "Washington  City,  a  mother  and 
daughter,  sole  occupants  of  the  dwelling,  with  the  exception  of 
a  servant,  were  sitting  alone  one  lovely  June  evening,  at  the 
hour  of  sunset. 

The  mother,  a  lady  of  some  forty-five  years,  reclined  in  a 
large  easy  chair,  drawn  towards  one  of  the  open  windows,  with 
her  feet  resting  on  a  cushion,  and  from  her  languid  attitude,  and 
the  pallor  of  her  face,  it  was  easy  to  perceive  that  she  was  an 
invalid.  She  wore  a  dress  of  black  silk,  plainly  and  loosely 
made ;  and  a  little  black  lace  cap,  fitting  tightly  to  her  small 
and  beautifully  shaped  head,  softly  overlaid  the  bands  of  dark 
brown  hair,  threaded  here  and  there  with  silver,  that  shaded  a 
face  that  had  evidently  once  been  one  of  rare  loveliness. 

The  young  girl  was  but  a  few  steps  off,  half  kneeling,  half 
sitting  on  the  floor,  in  a  position  of  childish  grace,  one  arm 
resting  on  the  sill  of  the  low  window,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
floating  clouds  above.  Her  hair,  only  moderately  redundant, 
but  of  silky  fineness,  and  rarely  beautiful  in  color,  extremely 


8  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"dark,  yet  with  warm  golden  reflections,  was  slightly  disarranged, 
as  though  in  her  abstraction  she  had  pushed  it  away  ;  and  her 
features,  not  perfectly  regular,  yet  approaching  the  antique  type 
in  their  clear  cut  but  rounded  outlines,  were  plainly  visible. 
The  face  had  the  pure  Grecian  oval.  The  brow,  too,  was  Gre 
cian,  low,  broad,  and  full.  The  large,  well  shaped  melancholy 
eyes,  were  of  the  sea-blue  color  that  Lamartine  loves ;  the  nose, 
just  prominent  enough  to  indicate  decision  of  character,  and 
the  mouth  had  those  curved1  and  impressible  lines  capable  of 
expressing  every  feeling.  Her  complexion  was  olive,  soft,  and 
clear,  and  pale,  with  that  utter  paleness  which  is  seldom  seen. 
As  she  sat,  her  figure  was s about  the  medium  height;  and  her 
girlish  dress  of  white  muslin,  low-necked  and  short-sleeved, 
showed  her  neck  and  arms,  that  were  formed  and  rounded  with 
wonderful  beauty.  Her  lithe  form,  slender  yet  full,  possessed 
all  the  youthful,  innocent  grace  of  her  years,  combined  with 
something  of  the  voluptuousness  of  womanhood. 

Tjaere  was  intellect  in  the  upturned  face,  and  power  and  pas 
sion,  too,  not  so  much  undeveloped  as  held  in  check  by  the 
timidity  of  her  eighteen  years ;  yet,  wondrously  attractive  as 
such  a  face  and  form  must  have  been  to  one  of  a  refined  mind 
and  appreciative  taste,  such  was  her  shrinking  air,  such  the 
rapt  and  melancholy  expression  of  her  face  when  in  repose, 
that  she  might  have  passed  almost  unnoticed  in  a  crowd ;  and 
there  were  doubtless  many  who  would  not  have  called  hei 
beautiful. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  own  thoughts,  that  she  did  not 
perceive  that  the  garden  gate  opened  and  shut,  and  a  white- 
haired  old  gentleman,  of  a  majestic  figure,  walked  with  creak 
ing  boots  up  the  gravelled  path,  and  entered  the  house.  A 
moment  after,  coming  unceremoniously  into  the  parlor,  with 
the  familiarity  of  an  old  friend,  he  tossed  his  hat  upon  the  sofa, 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow,  and  sitting  down,  made  a 
significant  gesture  towards  the  young  girl,  as  much  as  to  say 
"  There  she  is  again,  dreaming  as  usual." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  9 

"  Naomi,"  said  her  mother,  softly,  "  you  don't  see  the  Colo 
nel." 

The  young  girl  turned  quickly,  and  with  a  slight  smile  part 
ing  her  lips,  inclined  her  head  towards  him. 

"  Ah  1  child,"  he  said,  in  his  naturally  brusque  manner, 
"  don't  dream.  Dreams  won't  get  you  bread  and  butter." 

A  vivid  color  mounted  suddenly  into  her  cheeks,  and  after 
remaining  irresolute  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  did  not  know  whe 
ther  to  reply  or  not,  she  rose  abruptly,  stepped  out  of  the  win 
dow  upon  the  piazza,  and  walked  rapidly  away. 

"  A  fiery  little  puss,"  he  said  ;  "  she  is  angry  now." 

"No,  not  exactly  angry.  She  is  very, 'very  sensitive,  and 
any  little  jesting  remark  that  others  reply  to  in  kind,  wounds 
her  so  deeply  that  at  the  moment  she  cannot  speak.  I  wish  she 
were  not  so  ;  but  all  the  circumstances  of  her  past  life  and  her 
present  position  tend  to  increase  this  disposition  and  render  it 
almost  morbid." 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  indulge  her  in  whims  ;  now  this  notion  to 
become  a  singer,  looking  at  it  in  a  rational  manner,  is  all  non 
sense,  Mrs.  Torrente — all  nonsense,  and  you  should  not  encou 
rage  her." 

"  I  don't  encourage  her,  believe  me ;  but  it  is  a  very  difficult 
matter  to  discourage  her.  She  has  such  a  passion  for  music  and 
the  stage,  she  is  so  enthusiastic,  that  this  thought  makes  her 
forget  her  solitary  life,  and  gives  her  a  hope  in  the  miserably 
uncertain  future.  When  I  see  this,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  even 
try  to  dissuade  her  from  it.  You  know  that  she  is  young  and 
beautiful,  but  you  do  not  know — few  do — that  she  is  full  of 
talent  and  ambition.  Think  for  a  moment  of  the  lonely  and 
aimless  life  she  leads,  caged  here,  seeing  the  first  years  of  her 
youth  pass  away  in  this  useless  manner,  and  then  you  will  not 
wonder  that  even  I  should  sometimes  think  that,  could  it  be 
accomplished,  it  might  be  the  best  thing  for  her." 

"  Ay,  if  it  could  be  accomplished ;  there  is  where  the  diffi 
culty  lies.  Let  us  look  at  it  coolly  for  a  moment.  In  the  first 


10  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

place,  she  must  have  two  or  three  years'  tuition  under  the  best 
masters.  There  are  none  here  sufficiently  good;  you  would 
have  to  go  to  New  York.  How  would  you  live  there  ?  Then, 
when  fitted  for  her  profession,  there  would  be  a  wardrobe  to 
obtain ;  and  some  person,  some  relative  of  course,  must  needs 
accompany  her  on  her  travels,  for  you  know  how  roving  an 
artistic  life  is.  Where  are  the  means  for  all  this  ?  Where  is  the 
relative  to  accompany  her  ?  Not  surely  you — an  invalid — who 
often  cannot  walk  alone  in  your  room." 

"  0,  I  know  the  obstacles  are  very  great ;  but  yet  these 
things  are  managed  frequently  under  perhaps  greater  diffi 
culties." 

"  Yes,  there  is  one  very  easy  and  practicable  plan.  Take  her 
to  New  York :  her  beauty  will  insure  her  an  engagement.  Find 
her  a  boarding-house ;  young,  lovely,  and  inexperienced — as  all 
are  at  her  age — leave  her  in  that  great  Babylon  alone.  That 
would  work  beautifully." 

"  Pray  don't  talk  in  that  way.  Do  you  imagine  for  a  moment 
that  I  would  do  such  a  thing  ?  Leave  my  child — fling  her  out 
on  the  great  ocean  of  the  world  ?  Heaven  help  us  !  I  would 
rather  see  her  dead." 

"  I  have  only  spoken  so  to  show  you  the  absurdity  of  cherish 
ing  an  utterly  impracticable  thought.  Dismiss  it  from  your  mind 
— my  old  constant  friendship  gives  me  a  right  to  speak  to  you 
thus.  Why  did  I  not  know  you  in  your  girlhood  ?  Ah  I  that 
leaving  your  splendid  home  to  share  the  fortunes  of  an  exiled 
Cuban  was  a  foolish " 

"  Hush  !"  she  said,  and  the  color  mounted  to  her  pale  cheek. 
"  I  nfever  have — never  shall  regret  it.  Only  when  I  look  at 
Naomi,  my  lonely  orphan — only  then  I  feel  a  pang  ;  but  not 
even  then  regret." 

"  You  will  never  lose  your  romance — well,  well  I  But  now, 
as  to  Naomi,  my  dear  friend,  she  must  get  married." 

"  She  does  not  seem  to  have  the  wish  to  marry  that  girls  gene 
rally  have  ;  she  might  have  married  two  years  ago,  not  badly 


THE   HISTORY  OF   A  WOMAN.  11 

either,  if  she  would.     In  our  secluded  life  she  has  little  oppor 
tunity  of  seeing  any  one  calculated  to  please  her." 

"  Not  want  to  marry  I  All  nonsense  again.  Don't  you  see 
that  it  is  the  only  thing  for  her  ?  Do  you  think  she  would 
object  to  a  fine-looking,  gentlemanly  person,  with  a  good  in 
come?" 

Mrs.  Torrente  leaned  forward,  and  slightly  lowered  her  voice 
as  she  answered. 

"  Speak  low,  Colonel,  where  is  there  such  a  person  ?" 

"  Here  now — He  is  a  gentleman  from  New  York  ;  an  old 
friend  of  mine ;  and  he  is  seeking  a  wife with  your  per 
mission  I  will  bring  him  here." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  fancy  him  ?" 

"  That  is  too  much  for  me  to  say,  indeed.  I  don't  pretend  to 
understand  women's  vagaries,  you  can  but  try — I  tell  you  that 
he  is  a  gentleman — I  have  extolled  Naomi  to  him  till  he  is 
dying  to  see  her." 

"  Yery  well,  you  may  bring  him,  but  Naomi  must  believe  it 
to  be  entirely  an  accidental  thing.  Should  she  suspect  any 
preconcerted  arrangements  it  would  spoil  everything." 

"  Never  fear.  It  shall  be  to-morrow  evening ;  we  are  taking 
a  walk,  you  know,  and  I  stop  to  inquire  after  your  health.  By 
the  way,  I  have  not  asked  you  yet  how  you  do  feel  ?" 

"  Nervous  and  feeble,  though  not  quite  so  much  so  as  usual." 

"  I  must  be  going  now.  I  wonder  where  that  little  Sensitive 
Plant  vanished  to.  If  I  were  only  twenty-five  instead  of — 
no  matter  how  much,  I  would  marry  her  myself,  for  she  is 
almost  as  pretty  as  her  mother  used  to  be." 

She  smiled,  and  it  was  strange  to  see  how  the  smile  lit  up  her 
faded  face  with  its  old  pleased,  coquettish  expression  at  hearing 
a  compliment,  as  she  said : 

"  I  was  pretty  once,  Colonel,  was  I  not  ?" 

"  The  prettiest  woman  I  ever  saw,"  he  answered,  and,  adjust 
ing  his  white  locks,  he  passed  leisurely  out  to  the  piazza,  where 
Naomi  was  pacing  slowly  up  and  down. 


NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


"  Good  night,  little  Firebrand,"  he  said,  nodding  to  her  and 
laughing. 

*     "  Good  night,"  she  answered  indifferently,  and  continued  her 
slow,  pensive  walk  without  looking  at  him. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  13 


CHAPTER  n. 

NINETEEN  years  before  the  date  of  the  conversation  recorded 
in  the  previous  chapter,  Mrs.  Mabel  Torrente,  eldest  daughter 
of  a  wealthy  and  aristocratic  Virginia  gentleman,  fell  in  love  at 
the  mature  age  of  twenty-two,  when  romantic  sentiments  have 
generally  given  place  to  prudent  and  practical  considerations, 
with  a  poor  though  intelligent  and  highly  educated  Cuban,  a 
political  exile  from  his  native  land;  meeting  with  the  most 
determined  opposition  from  her  family,  she  took  the  usual 
course  in  such  affairs,  that  is  to  say — eloped  and  married 
him. 

Her  mother  had  been  dead  for  years.  Her  father,  a  man  of 
stern,  unyielding  character,  would  never  see  her  again ;  and  for 
,  a  long  time  would  not  permit  her  name  to  be  mentioned  in  his 
presence. 

Mabel  accompanied  her  husband  to  New  York,  where,  by 
diligently  teaching  and  translating  his  native  tongue,  he  was 
enabled  to  maintain  her  in  a  moderately  comfortable  man 
ner. 

Five  years  passed  thus,  and  then  a  child  came  to  them.  A 
little  Cuban  child,  the  father  said,  as  he  gazed  on  her  olive 
cheek,  and  tiny  hands  and  feet.  Even  as  an  infant  it  could  be 
seen  that  she  was  heiress  of  her  mother's  beauty,  grace,  and 
playful  fancy,  and  of  her  father's  strong  intellect.  They  called 
her  Naomi,  after  a  Jewess  who  had  been  one  of  the  dearest 
friends  of  her  mother's  girlhood. 

The  ceaseless  tide  of  time  swept  ten  years  more  into  the  great 
ocean  of  eternity.  Naomi  was  still  their  only  child ;  and  all 
their  thoughts  and  wishes  centring  in  the  small  quiet  rooms  of 
some  plain  boarding-house  which  constituted  their  home,  they 


14  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

lived  from  day  to  day,  careless  of  the  future,  as  we  all  are  when 
the  heart  is  satisfied. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Mr.  Torrente,  who  had  in  reality  been 
ailing  for  a  long  time,  fell  suddenly  very  seriously  ill.  In 
v  truth,  his  tropical  organization  had  never  been  equal  to  the 
long,  continued  exposure  to  the  storms  and  cold  incidental  to 
his  profession.  The  thought  of  his  wife  and  child  gave  him 
courage  to  battle  with  disease  for  a  long  time ;  but  the  hour  at 
last  arrived  in  which,  suffering  and  helpless,  he  was  obliged  to 
abandon  everything.  Poor,  agonized  Mabel  called  in  physi 
cian  after  physician ;  and  they  were  all  unanimous  in  the  opi 
nion  that  in  an  immediate  voyage  to  Cuba  lay  the  only  hope  of 
his  recovery.  Alas  I  how  difficult  of  execution  was  such  a 
project,  when  their  scanty  means  scarce  afforded  them  a  support, 
even  with  the  most  rigid  economy.  Fortunately  Mabel  still 
possessed  some  valuable  trinkets,  relics  of  girlish  luxury,  by 
the  sale  of  which  she  obtained  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
the  voyage. 

In  her  confusion  and  inexpressible  anxiety  of  mind,  it  was 
not  till  all  other  plans  were  formed  and  preparations  completed 
that  Mabel  bethought  her  of  her  child.  Should  she  go  with 
them  ?  If  not,  where  could  she  be  left  ?  Her  eyes  turned 
longingly  towards  her  father's  home.  Ah  I  if  her  child  could 
but  find  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  her  family  I  That  thought  was 
vain;  but,  pondering  on  the  almost  insurmountable  obstacles 
to  taking  her  with  them,  the  want  of  adequate  means,  the  dan 
ger  to  the  child's  health  of  a  tropical  climate,  and  the  impossi 
bility,  chained  as  she  was  to  her  husband's  bed-side,  of  properly 
caring  for  her,  she  wrote  finally  to  her  sister,  a  wealthy  widow 
residing  in  Washington,  stated  the  circumstances,  and  begged 
her  advice.  • 

An  answer  came  by  return  of  mail,  written  with  the  impul 
sive  kindness  of  heart  that  characterized  Mrs.  Changerton. 
She  would  take'  charge  of  the  child  during  their  absence  ;  and 
she  would  do  so  with  more  readiness  and  pleasure,  as  her  only 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  15 

daughter,  Mary,  was  but  two  years  Naomi's  senior,  and  they 
would  be  as  sisters  to  each  other. 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  relieved  of  part  of  her  great  burden,  spite 
of  the  anguish  of  parting  with  her  child.  She  stole  for  two 
days  from  her  husband's  side,  and  took  Naomi  to  Mrs.  Chan- 
gerton's  house.  There,  after  the  lapse  of  so  many  years,  she 
tearfully  embraced  her  sister,  and  kissed  for  the  first  time  her 
niece  and  nephews.  Earnestly,  solemnly,  she  said  to  her  sister: 

"  Oh  I  Ada,  be  a  mother  to  my  child  in  my  absence,  and  pray 
that  God  may  restore  her  parents  to  her." 

Then,  taking  the  frightened,  low-sobbing  Naomi  upon  her 
agonized  bosom  for  a  few  brief  moments,  she  soothed  her  with 
caresses  and  tender  words,  and  then,  with  a  great  effort,  put.  her 
down  and  rose  to  go.  Naomi  did  not  cling  to  her  mother,  as 
almost  any  other  child  would  have  done  under  such  circum 
stances.  Young  as  she  was,  her  quick  intelligence  taught  her 
the  uselessness  of  striving  to  prevent,  or  even  delay,  what  was 
inevitable.  She  stood  quite  still,  her  bowed  head  hidden  by 
her  little  hands,  weeping  silently,  but  yet  with  unrestrained  and 
passionate  grief.  Her  mother  knelt  beside  her,  held  her  to  her 
breast  for  one  moment  longer,  and,  not  daring  to  hazard  another 
look,  hurried  away.  Two  days  after  Mrs.  Changerton  showed 
Naomi  the  names  of  her  parents  among  the  list  of  passengers 
for  Havana. 


16  NAOMI  TORKENTE: 


CHAPTEE  III. 

IN  her  own  home,  where  every  reproof  had  been  tempered  by 
affection,  and  every  restraint  had  been  so  gentle  and  salutary 
that  it  never  galled  in  the  least  her  proud  and  sensitive  nature, 
Naomi's  childish  character  had  developed  itself  as  harmoniously 
as  a  flower  blooms  under  the  favoring  circumstances  of  air,  and 
warmth,  and  light.  The  tinge  of  melancholy  inherent  in  her 
organization  was  only  at  times  visible  in  the  meditative  and 
dreamy  aspect  of  her  sweet  face  ;  and  for  the  most  part  she  was 
freely  and  frankly  joyous,  sometimes  even  hoydenish  in  her 
innocent  glee.  She  was  wont  to  creep  to  her  father's  or  mother's 
knee,  or  sit  at  their  feet  and  tell  them  every  little  thought  or 
feeling  of  her  guileless  heart ;  or  rather,  as  they  used  to  say, 
think  aloud  to  them.  Such  was  Naomi  when  she  entered  her 
aunt's  household ;  and  as  the  fresh,  fragrant  plant,  torn  from  its 
native  soil,  and  deprived  of  genial  warmth  and  freshening 
breeze,  pales,  droops,  and  closes  in  upon  itself,  even  so  in  the 
chill  of  melancholy  and  desolation  that  fell  upon  her  in  this 
strange  atmosphere,  the  child's  heart  shut  in  all  its  old  happy 
impulses. 

Mrs.  Changerton,  still  young  and  very  pretty,  was  vain,  coquet- 
ish,  extravagant,  and  ruled  by  no  governing  principle  of  right ; 
she  was  kind-hearted,  generous,  devoted  to  those  she  loved ;  yet, 
swayed  by  every  impulse,  whether  good  or  evil,  she  had  no 
sense  of  justice.  Mary,  her  daughter,  a  girl  of  twelve  years 
old,  was  already  almost  a  woman,  and  was  also  exceedingly 
pretty.  She  was  intelligent,  and  her  education  was  more  than 
usually  advanced  for  one  of  her  years  ;  but  her  character  was 
cold,  selfish,  and  arbitrary.  Accustomed  to  rule  everything  in 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  .  17 

her  mother's  household,  she  could  not  brook  the  slightest  oppo 
sition  to  her  will,  which  her  mother,  in  her  blind  adoration,  had 
taught  her  to  consider  law, 

Mrs.  Changerton  had  two  sons,  innocent  little  creatures,  with 
out  any  distinguishing  traits  of  character. 

Introduced  into  this  great  house,  Naomi  did  not  need  to  be 
told :  "  You  are  to  understand  that  you  are  a  dependent,  and  not 
at  home  here  ;  you  are  not  to  move  unrestrainedly  about  this 
house  ;  not  too  freely  examine  the  luxurious  appointments  of 
these  apartments  ;  your  aunt  will  be  kind  to  you,  that  is  to  say, 
she  will  not  abuse  you  unless  you  provoke  her  in  some  unto 
ward  mood  ;  but  your  arms  may  never  venture  to  steal  around 
her  neck,  your  lips  may  never  press  her  cheek.  As  to  your 
cousin  Mary,  all  the  ingenuity  of  nature  and  art  could  never 
manufacture  a  barrier  so  utterly,  hopelessly  impassable  as  the 
invisible  one  that  rears  itself  between  you  and  her."  No,  Naomi, 
intensely  susceptible  of  impressions,  did  not  need  to  be  told 
this,  she  felt  it — felt  it  in  the  sense  of  restraint  and  bondage  that 
were  around  her  like  unseen  but  mighty  chains  ;  in  the  lifeless, 
colorless  aspect  of  everything  about  her — even,  it  seemed  to  her, 
in  the  cold,  life-denying  air  she  breathed.  Worse  than  all,  to  a 
nature  like  hers,  was  the  conviction,  not  arrived  at  by  reason 
ings,  but  felt  like  the  rest,  that  her  affections,  wishes,  nay  even 
her  life  itself,  were  matters  of  little  or  no  importance  to  those 
around  her. 

Time  passed — letters  came  from  Mrs.  Torrente — her  husband 
was  sligh'tly,  very  slightly  better  ;  but  still  utterly  unable  to 
attend  to  anything  like  business.  It  was  only  through  her  des 
perate  efforts,  tearing  herself  from  his  side  when  his  voice  called 
on  her  alone,  that  she  obtained  by  teaching  English  means  for 
their  support ;  for  Mr.  Torrente  was  an  orphan,  and  his  few  living 
relations  were  poor.  There  was  a  long  letter  for  Naomi,  where 
the  mother's  heart  cried  out  for  her  child  with  yearning  love. 
To  read  it  over  and  over  again,  and  wear  it  in  her  bosom,  and  sleep 
with  it  beneath  her  pillow,  were  the  poor  child's  only  consolations. 


18  NAOAII  TORRENTE  : 

And  so  as  months  rolled  away  bringing  always  the  same  news 
from  Cuba ;  and  time  developed  and  consolidated  the  antagonis 
tic  relations  the  household  had  assumed  towards  her  on  her 
entrance,  strange  changes  and  contrasts  were  germinated  in 
Naomi's  character. — The  constant  sneering  criticisms  of  words, 
and  looks,  and  actions  ;  harsh,  despotic  chidings  ;  or  worse  still, 
utter  neglect ;  the  arrogant  sweeping  around  her  of  disdainful 
robes,  sweeping  her  into  nothingness  as  it  were  ;  gradually 
engendered  within  her  a  bitter  self-depreciation  and  self-distrust, 
mingled  with  a  haughty,  rebellious,  and  defiant  pride,  two  feel 
ings  directly  opposed  in  their  nature,  and  both  unnatural  at 
her  age.  An  overpowering  timidity  which  froze  upon  her  lips 
the  expression  of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  and  a  fierce  spirit 
of  resistance,  took  possession  of  her.  Swayed  generally  by  the 
first  feeling,  which  was  becoming  the  ruling  influence  of  her  life, 
her  cold  and  unnaturally  repressed  manner  indicated  only  to  an 
acute  observer,  the  misgiving  heart  that  was  fast  losing  faith  in 
itself;  and  yet,  when  stung  by  her  cousin's  sly  sneers  or  open 
insults,  her  smothered  resentment  burst  forth  in  tfre  bitterest 
retorts  her  precocious  intellect  could  frame. 

At  this  time,  Mrs.  Changerton  sent  her  to  school  with  Mary, 
and  with  the  strange  influences  at  work  upon  her,  this  was  a 
new  source  of  torment  to  the  sensitive  child.  Beside  her  father's 
knee,  she  had  learned  all  that  she  knew.  A  few  gentle,  quiet 
words  from  him  had  explained  to  her  the  first  principles  of 
grammar  and  arithmetic,  and' something  of  the  facts  of  history; 
and  her  quick  intelligence,  encouraged  by  his  judicious  praise, 
had  instantly  mastered  them  ;  but  she  had  never  entered  into 
competition  with  a  class  ;  had  never  seen  laughing,  bold-faced 
girls  staring  at  her  as  she  opened  her  mouth  to  reply  to  a  ques 
tion,  ready  with  the  quick  whisper  'and  laugh  if  she  hesitated 
an  instant.  If,  in  her  happiest  days,  this  would  have  been  a  trial 
to  her,  how  much  more  so  was  it  now  when  suffering  from  this 
fatal  timidity,  which,  when  it  came  upon  her  in  its  intensity, 
took  away  her  senses  for  the  moment,  leaving  her  only  conscious 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A   WOMAN.  19 

of  the  rushing  blood  that  dyed  her.  face,  and  the  trembling  hands 
she  would  fain  have  hidden. 

No  one  sought  her,  and  she  sought  no  one — she  did  not  dare 
— who  cared  for  her  ?  and  yet,  why  was  it  that  she  was  thus 
separated  from  all  ?  When  the  bell  rang  for  the  hour  of  recre 
ation,  each  girl  found  her  companion,  or  companions.  Only  she 
remained  sitting  alone  at  her  desk.  Only  she,  if  she  wandered 
to  the  playground,  would  be  left  standing  like  a  statue,  watching 
the  sports  of  the  others.  She  was  unlike  them.  Oh !  so  unlike 
them.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  that  they  ever  had  one  thought 
or  feeling  in  common.  She  was  vaguely  impressed  with  a  sense 
of  their  superiority.  They  were  happier,  better,  lovelier — they 
must  be.  How  spontaneous  were  their  joyous  bursts  of  laughter — 
and  she  ?  There  was  no  spontaneity  in  her ;  her  childish  soul  was 
bound  in  icy  fetters.  No  inhabitant  of  another  sphere  dropped 
in  their  midst  by  accident  could  be  mora  alien  from  them. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that,  restrained  by  morbid  timidity, 
depressed  by  self-distrust,  and  stimulated  by  no  ambition,  Naomi 
abhorred  school ;  and  by  a  very  natural  consequence,  abhorred 
the  lessons  she  had  to  recite  there.  Returning  from  its  hated 
confines  to  the  still  more  hated  abode  she  called  her  home,  she 
invariably  hastened  to  the  little  room  allotted  to  her,  where,  had 
she  been  permitted,  she  would  gladly  have  remained  for  ever 
alone,  and  there,  with  door  closed  and  locked,  school-books  were 
thrown  aside,  and  some  novel,  borrowed  or  picked  up  about  the 
house,  substituted  in  their  stead.  Novels  read  at  an  age  when 
principles  are  formed  and  judgment  matured  are  never  danger 
ous  ;  and  when  they  are  of  the  kind  that  paints  life  as  it  really 
is,  are  of  infinite  use  in  enlarging  the  mind,  and  enlivening  the 
fancy.  Such  novels  are  but  histories,  in  an  entertaining  form, 
of  human  life  and  human  nature,  and  cannot  fail  to  instruct. 
But  to  a  child,  ignorant  of  itself  and  of  the  world,  and  conse 
quently  without  any  fixed  ideas  on  any  subject,  there  can  be 
nothing  more  pernicious  than  the  romances  that  fall  in  one's 
way ;  works  which,  without  moral  or  literary  merit,  corrupt  the 


20  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

heart,  and  vitiate  the  taste.-  With  no  one  to  guide  her  reason, 
or  control  her  through  her  feelings,  Naomi  peopled  her  solitude 
'  with  imaginary  beings,  to  whose  control,  whether  for  good  or 
evil,  she  blindly  surrendered  herself.  Devotion  had  ever  been 
a  strong  element  in  her  nature.  Many  and  many  a  time,  at 
some  trifling  illness  of  father  or  mother,  she  had  stolen  aside 
and  prayed  earnestly  for  them  with  all  the  simple-hearted  faith 
of  a  child ;  but  now  resentment,  misanthropy,  almost  hatred, 
had  so  darkened  the  world  within  her,  that  the  pure,  peaceful 
light  of  religion  could  not  illumine  it.  In  after  years,  when  the 
serene  light  of  hope  had  again  dawned  in  her  heart,  dispelling 
the  shadows  of  that  long,  dreary  night,  Naomi  looked  back  with 
a  kind  of  terror  at  the  dark,  dangerous  path  her  little  reckless 
feet  had  so  desperately  trodden.  Surely  some  benign  though 
unseen  influence  hovered  around  her,  keeping  green  and  vital  the 
germ  of  elevated  thoughts,  noble  purposes,  and  pure  affections 
which  Heaven  had  placed  within  her. 

Nothing  of  all  this  wrote  she  to  her  mother.  It  would  but 
make  her  more  unhappy,  and  she  could  neither  come  nor  send 
for  her ;  of  what  use  then  would  it  be  to  complain  ? 


THE  HISTOKY  OF  A  WOMAN.  21 


CHAPTER  IY. 

THUS  one — two — three  years  dragged  their  slow  lengths  along. 
Mr.  Torrente's  health  had  never  materially  improved ;  and  of 
late,  her  mother  wrote,  he  began  to  droop  more  and  more. 
Then  news  came  that  he  was  very,  very  ill ;  but  Mrs.  Torrente 
still  clung  to  the  blind,  wilful  hope  of  a  woman  who  loves,  and 
cannot  believe  it  possible  that  the  loved  one  can  go  froin  her. 
Naomi  had  never  seen  death.  The  crushing  weight  of  hopeless, 
impotent  sorrow  had  never  fallen  on  her,  and  she  could  not  com 
prehend  or  believe  in  it.  The  next  letter  would  tell  her  that 
her  father  was  better. 

A  fortnight  after,  she  was  alone  in  her  room  as  usual,  lying 
upon  a  couch,  and  absorbed  in  one  of  her  favorite  books,  when 
there  was  a  quick  double  rap  at  the  door.  Without  moving 
she  asked  indifferently,  "  Who's  there  ?" 

The  knock  was  impatiently  repeated,  and  a  voice  cried, 
"  Open  !  open  1  open !" 

Oh  !  how  the  heart  leapt  up  !  With  what  a  bound  she  gained 
the  door  and  flung  it  wide !  Ah !  it  was  all  gone,  that  misera 
ble  weary  time — gone  like  a  hideous  nightmare  that  the  morn 
ing  light  dispels ;  gone — or  rather  it  had  never  been ;  an  inno 
cent,  loving,  joyous  child  again,  Naomi  lay  once  more  upon  her 
mother's  bosom. 

It  was  long  ere  either  spoke.  The  mother  only  knew  her 
arms  were  round  her  child ;  the  child  was  only  conscious  of 
their  fond,  long-yearned-for  clasp.  At  last,  tenderly  raising 
Naomi's  drooping  head,  and  with  both  hands  pressing  the  pale, 
tear-stained  cheeks,  the  mother  said  falteringly : 

"  My  child !  my  own !  my  all  now.  Thank  God  that  I  have 
lived  to  see  your  sweet  face  again  !" 


22  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

At  these  words  Naomi  started,  and  remembered.  Glancing 
anxiously,  fearfully  around,  she  said  in  a  hesitating  tone  : 

"  Papa,  dear  mamma,  is  he  here  ?" 

But  there  was  no  answer  save  that  conveyed  by  her  mother's 
low-bowed  head  and  choking  sobs,  and  then  Naomi  knew  that 
far,  far  away  her  father  had  fallen  asleep  for  ever. 


THE   HISTORY  OP  A  WOMAN.  23 


CHAPTER  Y. 

WHEN  the  first  vehemence  of  her  sorrow  had  worn  away,  Mrs. 
Torrente  began  to  notice  the  change  that  had  come  over  her 
child.  She  had  grown  but  little,  and  her  form,  though  always 
exquisitely  symmetrical,  was  still  entirely  undeveloped  ;  but  the 
face  had  changed.  Gone  were  the  old,  sweet,  dimpling  smiles ; 
gone  the  dreamy,  tender  glance  of  the  dark  eyes.  Cold,  hard, 
almost  stony  in  its  rigidity,  her  face  betrayed  no  thought  or  feel 
ing  ;  and  her  manner,  too,  was  full  of  the  same  matured  repres 
sion.  Mrs.  Torrente  observed  with  anxiety  that  though  haunt 
ing  her  footsteps  like  a  shadow,  Naomi  never  crept  to  her  side 
in  the  familiar  way  of  yore,  and  with  her  arms  about  her,  told 
her  all  that  had  happened  during  their  long  separation.  Soon, 
however,  her  evident  dislike  to  her  aunt,  and  her  defiant  man 
ner  to  Mary,  gave  the  mother  an  inkling  of  the  truth.  They 
were  alone  one  day,  and  gently  taking  her  child  upon  her  knee, 
she  said : 

"Naomi,  you  are  changed,  my  darling;  so  changed  that  I 
should  scarcely  know  my  child.  You  should  have  no  secrets 
from  your  mother — your  mother  who  loves  only  you  in  this 
wide  world,  and  would  do  anything  for  your  happiness.  Come ! 
put  your  arms  around  my  neck,  and  tell  me  all." 

She  was  obeyed ;  and  with  a  great  passion  of  tears  the  pent 
up  heart  was  loosened,  and  poured  forth  its  history  of  neglect, 
pain,  and  humiliation. 

From  that  time  confidence  was  in  a  great  degree  restored 
between  mother  and  child ;  though  it  was  long  before  the  dark 
ness  of  those  evil  years  passed  entirely  from  Naomi's  soul. 

"Where  should  the  lonely,  friendless  widow  and  child  find  a 


24  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

home  ?  How  the  mother  suffered  in  revolving  this  thought  in 
her  mind,  day  and  night !  At  last  she  took  the  desperate  reso 
lution  to  seek  her  father,  and  appeal  for  aid  to  the  love  he  once 
bore  her. 

Unannounced,  she  stood  trembling,  and  with  a  sinking  heart, 
in  the  rooms  where  she  had  played  as  a  child  ;  and  sending 
word  simply  that  a  lady  wished  to  see  Mr.  Stateford,  dreadingly 
awaited  his  presence.  Almost  unaltered,  save  that  his  once 
black  hair  was  nearly  white  now,  he  entered  ;  and  his  daughter 
rose  and  stood  before  him.  His  eyes  rested  indifferently  on  her ; 
he  could  not  recognise  in  that  careworn  woman,  the  beautiful, 
blooming  Mabel  of  other  years  ;  but  she,  overpowered  by  the 
flood  of  memories  that  rushed  upon  her,  had,  almost  before  she 
was  herself  aware  of  it,  thrown  her  arms  about  him,  and  called 
him,  "  Father  !" 

His  first  impulse  was  to  push  her  from  him  ;  but  the  wailing 
vibrations  of  her  voice  were  in  his  ear ;  her  tears  were  on  his 
cheek  ;  and  her  sombre  dress  suggested  the  misfortune  that  had 
overwhelmed  her.  He  struggled  for  a  moment,  and  then 
silently  pressed  her  to  his  bosom. 

In  brief  words,  she  told  him  all  : — 

"  I  have  no  friend  on  earth  save  you,"  she  said  in  conclusion, 
"  to  whom  I  can  look  for  assistance.  You  surely  will  not, 
cannot  see  me  starve  with  my  poor  child." 

"  I  care  not  for  your  child,"  he  answered,  bitterly ;  "  I  hate  too 
much  the  memory  of  the  man  who  wrested  from  me  my  best- 
beloved  child  to  consign  her  to  a  life  of  poverty,  to  take  any 
interest  whatever  in  his  child.  You  say  rightly,  that  I  cannot 
see  you  starve.  You  shall  have  a  small  house  in  Washington, 
and  an.  allowance  sufficiently  large  to  live  comfortably  upon. 
For  your  sake,  and  while  you  live,  it  shall  be  large  enough  to 
sustain  your  child  also,  but  mark,  only  during  your  life.  At  your 
death,  it  will  reverfrto  the  regular  heirs." 

"Ah!"  sighed  the  poor  mother,  "  if  you  could  but  see 
her !" 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  25 

"I  will  never  see  her,"  lie  answered  determinately.  "Come 
and  see  me  wben  you  will,  but  let  it  be  alone" 

Though  she  had  obtained  far  more  than  she  had  ever  dared 
to  hope,  yet  her  father's  utter  rejection  of  her  child  lay  heavy 
at  her  heart,  as  she  took  possession  of  the  little  but  comfort 
able  home  his  kindness  had  granted  her. 


26  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ONCE  fairly  settled  in  their  new  abode,  their  grief-worn  hearts 
reposing  on  each  other,  an  interval  of  calm  and  rest  commenced 
for  them,  which,  apart  from  her  a'nxiety  for  the  future  of  her 
child,  was  happiness  to  the  mother,  and,  for  a  long  time  at 
least,  very  grateful  to  Naomi. 

Mrs.  Torrente  devoted  herself  to  her  daughter's  education. 
She  succeeded  in  imparting  to  her  a  very  good  knowledge  of 
her  own  and  the  Spanish  language,  which  she  herself  spoke  and 
wrote  like  a  native ;  taught  her  to  play  upon  the  piano  with 
taste  and  expression ;  and  cultivated  as  much  as  possible  the 
powerful  and  extensive  voice  with  which  nature  had  endowed 
Naomi — a  voice  wondrously  full  of  melody,  melancholy,  and 
passion. 

In  this  unvaried  existence,  which  was  only  redeemed  from 
monotony  by  her  love  for  her  mother,  and  the  bright,  unsub 
stantial  dreams  belonging  to  her  years,  Naomi  gradually 
regained  her  old  sweetness  of  temper,  and  nobleness  of  heart. 
Only  at  times  were  the  traces  of  her  painful  experience  visible 
in  hei*extreme  sensitiveness,  and  the  old  miserable  sense  of  self- 
distrust.  There  was  yet  one  other  thing  acquired  or  developed 
in  those  unhappy  days,  which,  in  a  certain  sense,  might  be  said 
to  be  advantageous,  and  this  was  the  habit  of  guarding  her 
innermost  feelings  from  every  eye ;  she  never  was,  never  could 
be  as  unreservedly  confidential  as  before  ;  and  this,  as  far  as  the 
world  was  concerned,  was  a  great  piece  of  wisdom  early  learned. 
Happy  are  those  who  do  not  wear  their  "heart  upon  their  sleeve 
for  daws  to  peck  at." 

Naomi  at  fifteen,  was  still  so  undeveloped  in  form,  and  shrink- 


THE  HISTOEY  OF  A  WOMAN.  27 

ing  in  manner,  that  she  looked  scarcely  more  than  twelve.  She 
ever  possessed  great  maturity  of  thought  and  character,  but  there 
are  few  eyes  penetrating  enough  to  pierce  the  veil  of  exteriors. 

The  only  events  worthy  of  record  during  these  years  were 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Torrente's  father,  and  Mrs.  Chaugerton's 
removal  to  New  York. 

Mrs.  Torrente  visited  no  one  absolutely,  as  neither  her  incli 
nations  prompted,  nor  did  her  circumstances  permit  her  to  keep 
up  a  circle  of  acquaintances  ;  and  received  only  a  few,  old, 
valued  friends,  who  could  dispense  with  all  ceremony.  Added 
to  this,  her  health  had  begun  to  fail,  and  it  was  becoming  a  diffi 
cult  task  for  her  to  leave  her  home. 

Quite  unexpectedly,  one  day,  she  received  a  note  from  Mrs. 
Eaphael,  her  oldest,  dearest  friend,  for  whom  Naomi  had  been 
named,  announcing  her  arrival  at  one  of  the  principal  hotels 
of  the  city.  Mrs.  Torrente  was  so  delighted,  that  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment  she  roused,  and  went  with  Naomi  to  pay  her  a 
visit.  It  was  an  affectionate  and  joyous  meeting  for  the  old 
friends ;  and  the  young  girl  found  it  an  agreeable  novelty  to  gaze 
around  the  gay  drawing-rooms. 

o     •/ 

There  was  a  gentleman  talking  to  Mrs.  Raphael  when  they 
entered,  who  was  presented  to  them  by  the  name  of  Mr.  Ash- 
wood.  He  was,  judging  from  his  appearance,  a  mixture  of  Jew 
and  Christian.  He  had  an  intelligent  face,  fine  dark  eyes,  a 
manly  form,  and  a  very  easy  and  engaging  address. 

Finding  himself  opposite  to  Naomi,  he  endeavored  to  draw 
her  into  conversation,  but  in  vain.  The  timid  girl  did  not  dare 
to  raise  her  eyes  to  his ;  and  her  low-voiced  replies  were  scarcely 
audible.  When  her  mother  rose  to  take  leave,  she  ventured  to 
steal  a  look  at  him,  and  it  might  have  been  the  encounter  of  his 
full  deep  gaze  that  so  suddenly  flushed  her  cheek. 

Mrs.  Raphael  returned  Mrs.  Torrente's  visit,  and  as  it  was  in 
the  evening  that  she  came,  and  she  was  a  widow,  and  needed  an 
escort,  she  brought  Mr.  Ashwood  with  her.  Partly  in  compli 
ment  to  her  friend,  and  partly  because  she  found  him  very  intel- 


28  NAOMI  TORBENTE: 

ligent  and  companionable,  Mrs.  Torrente  tendered  him  an  invi 
tation  to  visit  them  ;  and  after  Mrs.  Eaphael  had  left  the  city, 
he  availed  himself  of  it,  though  rarely,  and  always  maintaining 
his  intimacy  on  exactly  the  same  footing  of.  respectful,  and  even 
rather  distant  friendship. 

From 'the  first,  the  evenings  of  his  visits  were  events  in 
Naomi's  life.  He  rarely  ever  addressed  his  conversation  to  her, 
and  she  was  well  pleased  that  he  should  not,  for  she  was  always 
embarrassed  for  a  reply.  He  had  travelled  much,  and  with 
sketches  of  persons  and  places  he  had  seen,  he  would  amuse  her 
mother  by  the  hour.  Then,  Naomi,  sitting  quietly  apart,  affecting 
to  be  busied  with  a  book  of  prints,  or  some  other  trifle,  would 
watch  the  varying  expression  of  his  face,  and  his  graceful  man 
ner  ;  and  listened  with  intense  pleasure  to  the  modulations  of 
his  harmonious  voice.  It  was  only  sometimes  that  his  glance 
wandered  towards  her,  and  then,  with  her  own  eyes  downcast, 
she  could  feel  it  as  long  as  it  rested  upon  her. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  she  always  felt  an  almost  irresistible 
desire  to  detain  him,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  took  away 
with  him  the  sunlight  of  her  life,  leaving  everything  cold  and 
dark,  till  it  should  be  again  illumined  by  hjs  presence. 

Yet,  who  that  saw  her,  so  childish  in  appearance,  with  her  dress 
to  the  ankle,  and  her  simply  braided  hair,  sitting  so  quietly 
there,  so  calmly,  so  smilingly  saying  "  Good  night,"  could 
have  imagined  the  feelings  that  inwardly  agitated  her  ?  Cer 
tainly  not  Mr.  Ash  wood,  who  looked  upon  her  as  a  pretty  child ; 
and  never  for  a  moment  dreamed  that  aught  but  childish  feel 
ings  had  ever  entered  her  bosom. 

Naomi,  herself,  was  entirely  unconscious  of  the  nature  of  her 
emotions.  She  only  knew  that  there  was  a  new  gladness  in  life  ; 
a  new  feeling  upon  her,  filling  her  being  with  ineffable  content 
ment. 

This  lasted  for  about  four  months,  and  might  have  gone  on 
heaven  knows  how  long,  had  not  an  unexpected  event  enlight 
ened  her  as  to  the  cause  of  her  innocent  happiness. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  29 

It  was  one  day,  on  a  return  from  a  long,  solitary  walk,  that 
she  found  Mr.  Ashwood  sitting  with  her  mother.  With  his 
usual  sweet,  engaging  smile,  he  rose,  and  bowed,  and  placed 
a  chair  for  her.  She  thanked  him  in  a  low  voice,  and  sat 
down. 

"  We  are  going  to  lose  Mr.  Ashwood,  dear,"  the  mother  said, 
in  a  tone  of  regret.  "  He  leaves  this  afternoon  for  New 
York." 

"  To  return  ?"  The  words  burst  impetuously  from  her  lips  ; 
and  almost  for  the  first  time  her  eyes  sought  his.  He  smiled, 
and  turned  his  laughing  glance  on  Mrs.  Torrente. 

"Why,  Naomi,"  her  mother  said,  responding  to  his  smile, 
"  our  friend  is  going  to  seek  his  bride,  and  will,  probably,  reside 
hereafter  in  New  York." 

Proud  young  heart  !  how  bravely  it  bore  the  sudden  blow. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  gnawing  pain  within ;  and  knew  from 
the  cold,  dizzy  feeling  upon  her,  that  she  must  have  paled.  Her 
only  coherent  thought  was,  gratitude  to  heaven  that  it  was 
nearly  dusk,  and  that  her  back  was  toward  the  light. 

Fortunately,  her  usual  manner  was  so  quiet,  that  neither  her 
mother  nor  Mr.  Ashwood  wondered  at-  her  making  no  remark. 
They  exchanged  a  few  more  words,  and  then  he  rose  to  go. 
Naomi,  too,  rose ;  and  when  he  turned  to  her,  laid  her  little  cold 
hand  in  his,  without  a  word ;  and  then,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
watched  him  pass  from  the  room. 

Her  heart  was  swollen,  almost  to  bursting.  She  must  give 
vent  to  her  feelings.  She  must  be  alone.  Not  daring  to  trust 
herself  to  speak,  she  was  moving  toward  the  door,  when  her 
mother  said  : — 

"  After  you  take  off  your  things,  dear,  come  down." 

She  nodded,  yes  ;  and  with  a  rapid  step  reached  her  own 
room.  There,  with  door  closed  and  locked,  the  first  beautiful 
golden  cloud  of  her  existence  dissolved  in  bitter  tears,  the  first 
and  the  last ;  though  it  was  many  and  many  a  day  before  the 
memory  of  her  first  love  (for  love  it  surely  was)  wore  away ; 


30  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

many  and  many  a  day  before  any  other  feeling  of  the  same 
nature  came  to  take  its  place. 

Mrs.  Torrente  never  suspected  that  Naomi  had  cared  aught 
for  Mr.  Ash  wood.  She  never  mentioned  his  name.  Buried  in 
the  profoundest  recesses  of  her  heart,  his  image  silently  lived, 
insensibly  saddening  everything  around,  until  it  was  at  last 
effaced  by  time's  irresistible  hand. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  31 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MORE  slowly,  more  wearily  dragged  the  time  after  this.  Nao 
mi's  serenity  was  gone.  She  began  to  compare  her  monotonous 
and  isolated  existence  with  that  of  other  young  girls.  Even 
her  tender  and  devoted  love  for  her  mother  was  not  sufficient 
to  supply  the  needs  of  her  ardent  heart  and  ever  active  intel 
lect.  What  was  to  be  her  destiny  ? 

At  seventeen,  Naomi's  form,  so  slow  in  maturing,  had  deve 
loped  all  its  rare  perfections. — Slender,  yet  full  and  rounded  ; 
the  chiselled  neck ;  the  firm,  self-supporting  bust,  and  delicate 
waist ;  the  tapering  limbs,  and  tiny  hands  and  feet,  would  have 
rendered  her  a  fit  model  for  a  Grecian  statue. 

As  her  mother  told  Colonel  Familiar,  she  might  have  married 
at  this  age ;  married,  too,  in  a  way  that  the  world  calls  well. 
Her  suitor  was  a  man  much  older  than  herself,  without  accom 
plishments  of  mind  or  graces  of  person,  yet  possessing  in  a 
certain  line,  more  than  ordinary  talent,  and  with  a  fair  income 
that  promised  one  day  to  be  wealth. 

Mrs.  Torrente,  who  found  herself  declining  from  day  to  day, 
thought  with  such  terror  of  being  torn  from  her  child,  leaving 
her  utterly  friendless,  that  she  was  half  inclined,  though  her 
woman's  nature  shrank  with  sympathetic  loathing  from  the  idea, 
to  favor  the  encouragement  of  his  views.  Influenced  insensibly 
by  her  mother  to  a  certain  degree,  Naomi  received  his  visits ; 
and  though  her  involuntarily  frozen  manner  so  chilled  him,  that 
he  had  never  dared  to  touch  her  hand,  or  speak  one  word  to 
express  the  material  feeling  of  which  alone  he  was  capable,  and 
which  he  dignified  with  the  name  of  love ;  yet  she,  in  this  way, 
almost  unknowingly  led  him  to  believe,  that  at  some  future  day 
his  suit  might  be  accepted. 


82  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

One  evening,  from  some  cause  bolder  than  usual,  he  followed 
Naomi  as  she  rose  from  her  mother's  side,  and  walked  to  one 
of  the  windows,  and  with  a  blundering  attempt  at  an  expression 
of  endearment,  made  a  movement  to  pass  his  arm  about  her. 
With  an  indescribable  sense  of  disgust,  she  recoiled,  and  lifting 
her  eyes  to  his,  with  a  vivid  flash  in  their  usually  quiet  depths, 
turned  away,  and  sought  a  seat  alone.  He  joined  Mrs.  Torrente, 
and  entered  into  conversation  to  hide  his  confusion. 

Unobserved,  in  her  dark  corner,  Naomi  sat  for  several  minutes 
in  a  violent  inward  conflict. — Should  she  let  this  go  on  ?  Should 
she  permit  herself  to  be  drawn  gradually,  insensibly,  into  rela 
tions  so  utterly  abhorrent  to  every  thought,  every  sentiment, 
every  sensation  of  her  being  ?  Could  she  ever,  under  any  com 
bination  of  circumstances,  become  the  wife  of  a  man,  whose 
lightest  touch,  in  a  caressing  form,  so  revolted  her,  so  stirred  up 
within  her  antagonism,  and  even  evil?  Would  not  penury, 
humiliation,  death  itself  be  better  than  that  ? — Everything  in 
her  nature  clamored  "  yes  !"  She  leaped  to  her  feet,  and  with 
a  rapid  step  quitted  the  room.  / 

When  twenty  minutes  had  passed  and  she  did  not  return, 
Mrs.  Torrente  rang,  and  sent  to  inquire  .where  she  was.  The 
servant  brought  back  the  answer,  that  Miss  Naomi  was  not  well, 
and  had  gone  to  bed. 

She  accomplished  her  object.  That  was  her  suitor's  last 
visit. 

A  passionate  love  of  art,  in  all  its  forms,  and  especially  of 
music  and  the  drama,  were,  in  truth,  inherent  in  Naomi's  nature. 
Reading,  in  the  papers  of  the  day,  the  brilliant  triumphs  of 
great  artistes,  she  began  to  dream  of  an  artistic  career  for  herself. 
To  dream  of  it,  but  as  vaguely,  as  impractically,  as  sitting  alone 
at  twilight  we  dream  of  some  far  smiling  land  beyond  the  clouds. 
She  thought  not  of  its  toils  and  pains,  its  temptations  and  dan 
gers  ;  she  saw  only  the  crowns  of  flowers,  the  flashing  jewels, 
its  brilliancy,  luxury,  and  excitement,  so  well  suited  to  a  nature 
at  once  intellectual  and  voluptuous,  stoical  and  epicurean. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  33 

Chance,  Mrs.  Torrente  said,  had  developed  this  feeling  in  her ; 
but  there  are  things  in  life  that  would  seem  to  denote  the  hand 
of  fate  rather  than  that  of  blind  hazard.  Be  that  as  it  mjiy,  it 
was  thus  it  came  to  pass. 


34  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

ONE  morning,  quite  early,  Mrs.  Torrente  feeling  better,  and 
consequently  more  active  than  usual,  was  moving  about  her  bed 
chamber,  Naomi  had  just  finished  arranging  her  mother's  hair, 
and  was  smoothing  her  own  before  the  mirror,  when  the  servant 
came  to  say,  that  a  gentleman  wished  to  see  Mrs.  Torrente. 

"  A  gentleman  ?  Who  can  it  be  ?  Go  down,  my  dear,  and 
see." 

Naomi  descended.  A  tall,  slender  gentleman,  about  thirty- 
five  years  old,  an  entire  stranger  to  her,  was  standing  in  the 
parlor  door. 

"  You  wish  to  see  my  mother,  sir  ?"  Naomi  said,  with  that 
sweet,  modest  self-possession  which  she  had  lately  begun  to 
acquire,  "  she  is  not  very  well.  Please,  have  the  goodness  to 
tell  me  your  business." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  answered,  "  that  it  is  out  of  your  power  to 
attend  to  it.  If  possible,  I  should  like  to  speak  to  her  for  one 
moment." 

"  Take  a  seat,  then,  if  you  please,  and  I  will  tell  her." 

During  the  interchange  of  these  few  words,  the  only  tangible 
impression  Naomi  had  received  of  the  stranger,  and  that  without 
knowing  why,  was  that  he  possessed  a  great  deal  of  assurance. 
She  remained  quietly  above,  quite  uninterestedly,  while  her 
mother  descended.  In  spite  of  Naomi's  invitation,  the  gentle 
man  was  still  standing  when  Mrs.  Torrente  entered  the  room. 
He  bowed,  and  when  she  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  sat  down. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  commencing  the  conversation  with  the 
ease  and  readiness  of  a  man  of  the  world,  "  the  object  of  my 
visit  will  surprise  you  very  much,  I  know,  but,  I  trust,  not  offend 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  35 

you.  I  am  seeking  a  quiet  room  in  some  small  private  family 
where  there  are  no  children,  where  I  may,  uninterruptedly, 
pursue  a  literary  task  I  have  on  hand. 

"  I  know  that  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  letting  rooms,  but 
as  it  is  simply  for  a  kind  of  study,  and  only  for  a  short  time  that 
I  desire  one,  I  have  thought  you  might  depart  from  your  gene 
ral  custom,  as  this  is,  in  every  respect,  the  most  suitable  place 
I  have  found." 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  certainly  surprised,  and  her  face  showed  it. 
"  Yet,"  mused  she,  "  our  income  is  so  small,  if  I  could  by  letting 
a  room  obtain  a  little  surplus  money  for  Naomi's  wardrobe." 

"  It  is  a  thing  I  have  never  done,  sir,"  she  said  hesitatingly, 
"  and  then — you  will  excuse  me — we  are  entire  strangers  to 
each  other." 

He  drew  a  pocket-book  from  his  pocket,  took  a  card  from  it, 
and  handed  it  to  her,  saying  simply  : — 

"  You  may  possibly  have  heard  the  name." 

"  Henry  Fairford,"  said  Mrs.  Torrente,  thoughtfully,  "  it 
seems  to  me  I  have  heard  the  name.  Oh !  I  remember  now. 
It  was  a  long  while  ago,  some  nine  or  ten  years,  but  I  recollect 
now  perfectly.  I  heard  you  deliver  a  lecture  in  New  York." 

He  bowed  assentingly. 

"  And  I  never  shall  forget,"  continued  Mrs.  Torrente,  "  how 
delighted  both  myself  and  my  poor  husband  were  with  your 
eloquence,  sir." 

He  bowed  again. 

"  You  are  kind  enough  to  flatter  me,  madame — I  am  all  the 
happier  to  deserve  your  good  opinion,  as  it  will  enable  you  to 
pardon  more  readily  the  liberty  I  have  taken." 

"  How  well,  how  very  well,  I  remember  that  evening,"  con 
tinued  she,  carried  away  by  her  reminiscences,  "  we  were  both 
so  delighted  with  your  address  ;  and  afterwards  we  spoke  of  you 
so  often,  that  you  seem  to  me  now  like  an  old  friend  more 
than  a  stranger.  Times  have  changed,  very  sadly  changed  with 
me  since  those  days." 


36  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"  To  me,  also,  madame.     I  was  just  commencing  my  career 
then,  and  life  wore  to  me  the  joyous  aspect  it  does  to  all  at  the 
outset.     Pardon  me — may  I  ask  your  husband's  name  ?" 
"  Torrente,  sir ;  that  is  his  portrait." 

"  The  name  is  familiar  to  me,  and  so  is  the  face.  Stay,  I  think, 
I  am  sure  I  do  remember  that  on  one  occasion,-  at  one  of  my 
lectures,  probably  the  one  to  which  you  refer,  I  particularly 
noticed  this  gentleman  ;  partly  on  account  of  his  own  fine 
appearance,  but  more  because  there  was  a  young  and  very 
beautiful  lady  at  his  side." 

The  compliment  was  not  disagreeable,  though,  of  late  years, 
she  had  so  seldom  heard  one,  that  it  was  rather  confusing. 
She  smiled,  and  passed  her  handkerchief  over  the  eyes  mois 
tened  by  the  memory  of  lost  happiness. 

"  Since  accident  has  thrown  you  in  my  way  here,  sir,  and 
since  1  cannot  by  any  means  consider  you  as  a  stranger,  you 
shall  have  the  room  you  wish.  This  little  back  parlor,  which 
we  do  not  use,  will  answer  your  purpose  very  well,  I  pre 
sume." 

"  Perfectly,  madame.  All  the  furniture  I  require  is  a  table 
and  a  chair.  As  to  terms,  we  will  not  speak  of  them  ;  any 
price  you  see  fit  to  set,  will  be  agreeable  to  me.  When  may  I 
take  possession  ?" 

"  When  you  please,  sir." 

"  This  afternoon,  or  to-morrow  morning,  then.  Good  morning; 
madame." 

When  Mrs.  Torrente  returned  to  her  room,  she  was  more 
excited  than  Naomi  had  seen  her  for  a  long  time.  Eelating  to 
her  what  had  passed,  she  said  : — 

"  If  you  could  but  hear  him  speak,  child,  you  would  be  carried 
away  by  his  eloquence.  He  is  full  of  intellect,  and  when  I  first 
saw  him,  was  very  handsome." 

"  He  is  not  handsome  now,"  Naomi  answered  indifferently. 

"  No,  he  is  greatly  changed  in  appearance.  But  if  he  spare 
time  from  his  literary  labors  to  give  us  a  little  of  his  society, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  37 

you,  who  so  worship  intellect,  will  be  delighted  with  his  conver 
sation,  and  the  charm  of  his  manner." 

"  I  did  not  see  anything  charming  about  him,"  was  the  reply, 
"  and  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  like  him." 

"  I  always  thought  you  did  not  admire  a  foppishly  handsome 
gentleman,  child." 

"  Neither  do  I,  mamma.  But  if  I  should  not  like  Mr.  Fair- 
ford,  you  will  like  him  enough  for  both  of  us." 

Mr.  Fairford  took  possession  of  his  study  that  afternoon. 
Entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact,  and  quite  forgetful  of  him,  Naomi, 
about  an  hour  after  dinner,  wandering  pensively  down  stairs, 
saw  the  gentleman  standing  in  the  door  of  his  room. — It  might 
have  been  a  wish  to  test  what  her  mother  said  of  him ;  or  a 
wish,  very  natural  at  her  age,  and  likely  to  be  rendered  doubly 
strong  by  her  isolated  life,  to  converse  with  one  of  the  opposite 
sex,  possessing  at  least  the  attributes  of  a  gentleman ;  or  it 
might  have  been  a  latent  spirit  of  coquetry ;  at  any  rate,  be  it 
what  it  might,  Naomi  returned  his  respectful  bow  with  a  sweet 
smile,  and  half  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  as  though  she 
expected  to  be  addressed.  The  staircase  terminated  almost 
exactly  at  his  door,  and  standing  precisely  where  they  did,  they 
were  near  enough  to  converse.  He,  drawing  a  step  nearer,  com 
menced  the  conversation. 

"  Miss  Torrente,  your  mother  has  been  so  good  as  to  look 
upon  me  almost  as  a  friend ;  may  I  not  hope  that  her  daughter 
will  not  regard  me  as  an  entire  stranger  ?" 

"  Oh !  mamma  has  spoken  to  me  of  your  eloquence  with  great 
enthusiasm,  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Fairford ;  and  my  mother's  friends 
are  mine." 

"  She  looks  as  though  her  health  were  broken — is  it  so  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  poor  mamma  suffers  a  great  deal.  Every  day 
she  is  obliged  to  lie  down  two  or  three  hours  after  dinner." 

"  And  you  are  all  alone  then  ?  What  do  you  do  with  your 
self?" 

"  Sometimes  I  walk  out ;  sometimes  play ;  at  others,  read ; 


38  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

and  occasionally,"  with  a  faint  tinge  of  pink  on  the  soft  cheek, 
"  occasionally  write." 

"  Ah  !"  he  said,  with  a  mischievous  smile,  "  I  was  not  aware 
that  I  had  a. literary  rival  here;  though  I  might  almost  have 
guessed  as  much  from  those  books — yours  of  course  ?" 

As  he  turned  to  point  to  them,  she  drew  near  the  door,  and 
when  he  placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  making  some  remark  about 
one  of  the  works  upon  the  bookcase,  crossed  the  room  to  get  it, 
she  sat  down  without  the  remotest  idea  that  she  was  committing 
the  slightest  impropriety.  Mrs.  Torrente,  reared  in  the  country, 
and  never  moving  in  society  after  her  marriage,  had  not 
known  anything  of  the  severe  restraints  customary  in  city  life. 
Naturally,  therefore,  Naomi,  educated  in  the  most  profound  seclu 
sion,  accustomed  to  act  always  freely,  impulsively,  though  ever 
modestly,  and  without  a  thought  of  evil,  was  completely  ignorant 
of  all  the  thousand  quibbles  by  which  society  constantly  proclaims 
its  own  want  of  purity.  Besides  this,  habituated  to  wander 
through  the  house  at  her  will,  she  could  not  at  first  realize  that, 
for  a  time  at  least,  this  apartment  belonged  -to  a  gentleman.  Mr. 
Fairford,  a  man  of  large  experience  and  great  powers  of  per 
ception,  read  all  this  at  a  glance ;  moreover,  her  manner,  with 
its  rare  mixture  of  childishly  innocent  unconsciousness,  and  firm 
collected  self-guarding,  seemed  to  say  :  "  I  do  not  know  anything 
about  you ;  am  not  sure  that  you  are  good  ;  but  you  shall  not 
throw  me  off  my  guard,  and  I  do  not  fear  you."  He  saw,  too, 
or  fancied  he  saw,  that  her  heart  was  accessible  through  the 
medium  of  her  intellect,  and  this  intellectual  eloquent  man,  this 
polished  and  elegant  gentleman  of  society  concentrated  all  the 
force  of  his  intelligence,  brought  to  bear  every  attraction  of 
manner  at  his  command — he  who  had  so  often  without  an  effort 
charmed  a  listening  circle— to  bewilder  the  imagination  of  this 
young  girl,  this  almost  child,  who  had  already  awakened  within 
him  sensations  unlike  any  he  had  ever  experienced  before.  She, 
for  her  part,  as  she  listened  to  his  words  full  of  mind,  uttered  in 
a  voice  modulated  with  irresistible  eloquence,  saw  his  face — the 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  39 

face  she  had  thought  so  plain  and  uninteresting — light  with  enthu 
siasm  into  positive  beauty,  and  observed  a  certain  indescribable 
something  of  high-bred  elegance  in  his  manner,  which  appealed 
powerfully  to  the  dash  of  aristocratic  haughtiness  inherent  in 
her  own  nature,  felt  her  very  soul  expand,  and  all  her  heart 
seemed  to  open  spontaneously  to  confide  to  him  its  secret  aspira 
tions.  Her  first  impression  was  so  completely  obliterated  that 
if  she  had  remembered  it  at  all,  it  would  have  been  simply  to 
wonder  on  what  it  was  founded,  and  by  what  possibility  she 
ever  could  have  had  it.  He,  even  while  seemingly  absorbed  in 
the  conversation,  was  watching  the  color  burning  brighter  and 
brighter  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  dark  eyes  growing  more  and 
more  brilliant,  and  saying  to  himself,  "  What  an  organization  is 
this,  what  earnestness,  vehemence,  and  enthusiasm ;  and  what 
force  of  intellect,  what  strength  of  will  to  subjugate  it  to  lead 
the  loveless,  aimless  life  that  apparently  is  hers?  The  irre 
pressible  longing  of  her  heart  and  imagination  must  consume 
her." 

They  had  been  -  speaking  of  art  and  literature  when  he  sud 
denly  said  : — 

"  Some  of  those  closely-written  sheets  of  foolscap,  Miss  Tor- 
rente,  I  must  positively  see  them." 

"  Please,  do  not  call  me  Miss  Torrente.  Every  one  says  Miss 
Naomi,  and  the  other  sounds  strangely  to  me.  As  to  showing 
anything  of  that  kind  to  you  it  is  impossible." 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  Because — because  you  are  a  great  man." 

"  Oh !  you  are  going  to  convert  me  into  a  statue,  and  set  me 
up  on  a  pedestal.  No,  no,  Miss  Naomi,  let  me  come  down  and 
walk  by  your  side  like  a  common  mortal — not  meaning  though 
that  you  are  a  common  mortal,  for  indeed  you  are  a  very  uncom 
mon  one.  I  simply  mean,  that  you  should  talk  to  me  as  frankly 
and  naturally  as  you  would  to  any  one  of  your  school-girl 
friends." 

"I  have  no  school-girl  friends ;  no  lady  acquaintances  even." 


40  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"  Well,  then,  as  you  would  speak  to  the  most  favored  of  your 
thousand  admirers." 

"  Worse  and  worse,"  laughed  she,  "  I  have  neither  admirers 
nor  gentlemen  visitors." 

He  looked  at  her  with  astonishment. 

"  You  are  surely  jesting,"  he  said ;  "  if  you  have  never  lived 
in  society,  where  have  you  acquired  your  rare  conversational 
abilities  ?" 

It  was  the  first  time  Naomi  had  ever  been  told  that  she  pos 
sessed  them. 

"  I  think  you  are  flattering  me,  sir ;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  have 
told  you  only  the  simple  truth.  During  the  time  mamma  and 
I  have  lived  here,  almost  five  years,  we  have  led  the  most 
utterly — utterly  solitary  life  of  which  it  is  possible  to  conceive." 

"  But  surely  there  have  been  some  interruptions  to  it?" 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  person,  not  in  any  way  congenial  with  me, 
who  wished — wished — that  I  should  marry  him.  I  grew  dis 
gusted  soon,  and  despatched  him." 

"  And,"  fixing  his  keen  eye  earnestly,  almost  anxiously  upon 
her,  "  has  there  never  been  any  one  more  congenial,  more  agree 
able  to  you  ?" 

"  There  was  one  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Ashwood,  a  friend  of 
mamma's.  He  was  very  agreeable  and  interesting ;  but  it  was 
only  for  a  short  time  that  he  visited  us ;  he  got  married,  and 
went  away." 

What  a  sudden  shadow  had  dimmed  her  bright  face — how 
sadly  her  eyelids  drooped,  and  suffered  the  long  lashes  to 
sweep  her  cheek !  His  face,  too,  had  grown  grave,  and  his  voice, 
when  he  spoke,  had  lost  an  almost  imperceptible  something  of 
its  sonorous  steadiness. 

"  Ah  !  Miss  Naomi — Miss  Naomi,  there  was  something  more 
than  friendship  there.  Come,  be  frank,  was  there  not  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said  coldly,  lifting  her  eyes,  "  I  liked  him,  that 
was  all.  Do  you  think  I  would  love  a  man  whose  affections 
were  another's  ?  Besides  this,  I  was  only  a  child.  Two  years 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  41 

have  passed,  and  even  had  I  loved  him,  I  should  have  forgotten 
him  now." 

"Natures  like  yours,  Miss  Naomi,  do  not  forget.  Their 
raemories  slumber  sometimes,  but  never  die." 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  Because  in  an  earnest,  steady  nature  like  yours,  any  impres 
sion  capable  of  affecting  you  in  any  way,  must  inevitably  be 
profound — so  profound  as  to  become  an  integral  part  of  your 
self^ 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  me  ?"  she  asked  smil 
ingly. 

"  There,  on  your  smooth  brow,  in  the  depth  of  your  steady  eyes, 
in  your  curved  mouth,  your  character  is  written.  It  does  not 
require  much  penetration  to  read  what  is  so  plain." 

What  was  the  strong  influence  that  this  man  exercised  over 
her  ?  How  was  it  she  permitted  him  to  see  things  she  would 
fain  have  concealed  from  every  eye — permitted  him  to  see  them, 
and  that,  too,  without  regret  ?  His  eyes  were  resting  on  her 
with  an  expression  that  confused  her  ;  turning  her  own  in 
another  direction,  she  caught  sight  of  the  work  he  had  brought 
from  the  stand  ;  it  was  a  book  of  dramas.  His  glance  had 
followed  hers. 

"  So  you  read  dramas,  Miss  Naomi  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  read  anything  I  choose  ;  and  I  am  passionately  fond 
of  dramas  ;  and  the  stage  has  an  irresistible  attraction  for  me  ; 
so  much  so,  indeed,  that  I  have  thought  of — of  adopting  it  as 
a  profession." 

"  Adopting  it  as  a  profession,"  he  repeated  slowly,  and  then 
he  exclaimed  enthusiastically,  "  why  it  is  what  you  were  born 
for.  With  that  form  like  a  statue  of  ancient  Greece  ;  with  that 
face  capable  of  expressing  everything,  why  not  decide,  and  do 
it  at  once  ?" 

She  sighed. 

"  For  one  thing,  mamma  does  not  entirely  approve  it ;  and 
then — and  then — " 


42  NAOMI  TOEEENTE: 

He  waited  for  a  minute,  but  the  sentence  was  not  finished. 

"  Well,  what  then  ?"  he  said. 

With  drooping  lids,  and  a  slight  proud  flush  on  her  cheek, 

"  Ah  !  well,  there  are  obstacles." 

His  keen  eye  had  already  penetrated  them ;  but,  with  an  effort, 
he  repressed  the  words  that  rose  to  his  lips,  and  said  slowly, 
watching  the  effect  produced  on  her,  "  Bye — and — bye,  vhen 
we  know  each  other  better,  you  will  explain  them  to  me,  and 
we  will  see  if  they  cannot  all  be  overcome." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  irresistible  gratitude  for  his 
interest  in  her  eyes,  and  said  earnestly : 

"  I  do  so  love  music.  Without  ever  having  seen  an  opera, 
I  can  conceive  the  bewildering  excitement  of  performing  one. 
They  say,  too,  that  I  have  a  fine  voice." 

While  she  had  been  speaking,  a  slow  step  had  descended  the 
stairs,  and  paused  at  the  door  Naomi  heard  it  now,  and  made 
a  movement  to  rise,  but  Mr.  Fairford,  anticipating  her,  offered 
his  arm  to  Mrs.  Torrente  and  led  her  to  a  seat. 

Naomi  did  not  blush  or  start.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that 
her  mother  might  be  annoyed  at  finding  her  engaged  in  a 
tete-a-tete  conversation  in  the  room  of  so  fascinating  a  man  as 
Mr.  Fairford.  With  a  frank,  tender  smile  she  drew  near  her 
mother,  and  leaned  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"  So  my  naughty  child  has  beguiled  you  from  your  labors, 
Mr.  Fairford,"  Mrs.  Torrente  said. 

"  Say  rather,  madame,  that  my  dull  brain  has  been  inspired 
by  her  charming  presence,"  he  answered  with  a  gallant  bow  to 
Naomi? 

"  Naomi,  darling,"  said  her  mother  turning  to  her,  "  while 
I  rest  here  for  one  moment,  will  you  see  if  Martha  is  getting 
tea?" 

The  young  girl,  avoiding  the  encounter  of  a  pair  of  dark  blue 
expressive  eyes,  pressed  her  lips  upon  her  mother's  cheek,  and 
quitted  the  room. 

Mr.  Fairford  rose,  and  took  two  or  three  rapid  turns  up  and 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  •     43 

down  the  room,  then  suddenly  pausing  before  Mrs.  Torrente,  he 
said  : — 

"  You  may  have  had,  you  may  have  many — many  sorrows 
but  you  have  one  great  invaluable  consolation — a  beautiful  and 
gifted  daughter." 

The  mother's  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  as  she  answered  : — 

"  You  cannot  know  what  a  tender  and  devoted  daughter  she 
is,  sir.  I  might  almost  say,  that  I  make  up  her  life,  as  she  does 
mine.  Indeed,  sometimes,  it  pains  me  to  think  what  an  isolated 
existence  she  leads,  but," — with  an  expression  of  profoundly 
sorrowful  resignation, — "  we  must  submit  to  the  wi]l  of  Heaven." 

"  An  oft-repeated  observation,"  murmured  Mr.  Fairford,  half 
to  himself,  "  and  yet  after  all,  when  heart-felt,  and  truthfully 
practised,  it  embodies  the  wisest  philosophy  of  existence.  A 
young  girl  like  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Torrente,"  continued  he, 
resuming  his  thoughtful  pacing  up  and  down,  "cannot  be  buried 
in  obscurity.  That  fresh  virginal  loveliness ;  that  mind  full  of 
brilliant  thoughts  and  beautiful  imaginations,  to  live  and  die 
unappreciated.  Oh  !  it  should  not,  it  should  not  be." 

Mrs.  Torrente's  cheek  flushed,  and  her  eye  grew  brighter,  and 
she  said  gratefully  : — 

"  It  gives  me  the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  felt  for  many  a  long 
year,  to  know  that  a  man  of  your  recognised  ability  appreciates 
my  child.  I  know,"  added  she,  as  she  rose,  "  that  you  will 
pardon  a  mother's  egotism :  as  my  child  is  the  thing  nearest' 
to  my  heart,  it  is  very  natural  that  it  should  overflow  my  lips 
sometimes." 

Mr.  Fairford  advanced  and  took  her  hand  with  a*  kind  of 
respectful  affection. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  in  speaking  to  me  with  this  frankness, 
you  have  given  me  a  proof  of  confidence,  of  which,  though 
undeserving,  I  am  very  proud.  If  in  anything  I  can  be  of  any 
use  to  you,  you  may  freely  dispose  of  me.  One  favor  I  would 
ask — to  be  allowed  to  hear  your  daughter  sing." 

"  That  is  too  easy  to  be  granted  to  be  called  a  favor.     You 


H 
44  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

have  only  to  come  into  our  little  parlor  in  the  course  of  two  or 
three  hours,  and  your  wish  shall  be  gratified." 
'  When  Mra  •  -fbrrente  reached  the  basement,  she  found  tea 
already  on  the  table.  Naomi,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy, 
was  standing  by  it  absently  tapping  it  with  a  teaspoon.  She 
took  her  place,  and  poured  out  tea  in  silence,  and  then,  all  at 
once,  meeting  her  mother's  laughing,  inquiring  gaze,  she  said 
enthusiastically,  "  Oh  !  mamma,  what  an  intellectual  man  Mr. 
Fairford  is  !" 

"  Ah  ha !"  was  the  triumphant  reply,  "  who  said  he  was  unin 
teresting,  and  who  insisted  that  he  was  full  of  talent  and  elo 
quence  ?" 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  I  ever  could  have  thought  it.  It 
is  true,  I  have  never  associated  with  gentlemen,  but  I  never 
could  have  imagined,  that  anyone  in  the  world  could  understand 
me  as  he  does.  Why,  he  can  express  what  I  feel  and  think 
better  than  I  can  myself;  and  then  he  is  so  full  of  enthusiasm, 
that  when  he  talks,  his  face  reminds  you  of  a  light  shining 
through  an  alabaster  vase." 

Mrs.  Torrente  regarded  the  young  girl  attentively,  and  some 
thing  like  a  faint  shadow  of  anxiety  crossed  her  face.  Naomi's 
cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes  almost  unnaturally  brilliant,  and 
all  her  countenance  aglow  with  the  joy  of  awakened  intellect. 
Mrs.  Torrente  did  not  know,  or  if  she  did  she  forgot,  as  do  the 
'generality  of  people  who  never  sufficiently  analyse  themselves 
to  be  able  to  accurately  classify  the  indications  of  different  feel 
ings,  that  love  is  never  frank  and  vehement  in  its  manifestations, 
and  thafr one  under  its  all-absorbing  influence  instinctively  fears 
that  all  will  read,  even  in  the  accents  of  common  praise,  the  thing 
of  which  they  are  so  intensely  conscious.  She  did  not  recollect 
this ;  and  for  this  reason,  there  was  some  half-formed  anxiety 
in  the  inquiring  look  she  turned  upon  her  child  as  she  said  : — 

"  You  do  not  eat,  darling ;  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

Naomi  smiled,  and  pushed  away  her  untouched  plate,  while 
her  eyes  met  her  mother's  fearlessly. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  45 

"  I  am  excited,  dear  mamma — so  excited,  I  feel  "almost  as  if 
my  soul  would  like  to  leap  out  of  my  body.  Oh  !  it  is  such  a 
happiness  to  be  understood — it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  feel  that 
there  is  some  one  in  the  world  who  thinks  and  feels  as  we  do, 
when  we  have  grown  weary  of  that  something  within  ourselves 
that  separates  us  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Mrs.  Torrente's  face  settled  into  a  gentle  gravity  ;  she  looked 
at  her  plate  and  sipped  her  tea  in  silence.  No  more  was  said 
till  they  ascended  to  the  parlor.  The  room  was  full  of  the 
dreamy  haze  of  a  summer  twilight,  and  Naomi,  insensibly 
affected  by  its  tranquillizing  influence,  seated  herself  quietly  at 
the  piano,  and  her  touch,  full  of  a  subdued  melancholy,  wander 
ed  over  the  keys. 

"  It  seems  that  Mr.  Fairford  has  left  his  room,"  her  mother 
said.  u  He  asked  my  permission  to  come  and  hear  you  sing, 
which  I,  of  course,  granted." 

"  Sing  for  him,  mamma  ?     I  would  never  dare." 

"  Nonsense  !  You  must  learn  to  overcome  that  timidity,  and 
the  sooner  you  commence  the  better." 

About  an  hour  after,  a  manly  step  came  along  the  hall,  and 
Mr.  Fairford  stood  in  the  doorway  tapping  gently.  He  entered, 
and.  seated  himself  by  Mrs.  Torrente  in  obedience  to  her  polite 
bidding.  There  were  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  and  then  a 
pause,  and  Mrs.  Torrente  said : — 

"  Sing  something,  darling." 

After  a  moment,  Naomi's  nervous  fingers  preluded  falteringly 
an  air  from  "  Norma,"  and  then  her  voice,  low,  wavering,  but  ever 
harmonious  and  expressive,  rose  tremulous  upon  the  air.  There 
was  a  profound  silence  for  several  minutes  after  she  ceased. 
Mr.  Fairford  sat  like  one  absorbed  in  thought ;  then,  suddenly, 
he  said  to  Mrs.  Torrente,  in  so  low  a  voice  that  Naomi  could 
not  be  sure  that  she  heard  rightly. 

"  Madame,  she  has  a  wonderfully  beautiful  voice." 

What  her  mother  answered  she  did  not  catch ;  but  the  subject 
by  one  or  the  other  was  abruptly  changed,  and  carried  on  in  a 


46  NAOMI   TOREENTE  : 

tone  that  all6wed  her  to  hear  distinctly.  He  did  not  approach 
Naomi  nor  address  her  during  the  evening,  though  he  talked 
brilliantly,  eloquently,  as  he  so  well  knew  how ;  without  look 
ing  at  her,  he  observed  her  every  movement,  and  saw  with  a 
keen  new  sense  of  pleasure,  the  intervals  between  the  chords 
she  was  playing  grow  longer  and  longer,  until  at  last  her  hands 
lay  motionless  upon  the  keys,  and  her  fair  head  involuntarily, 
•  unconsciously  turned  to  him,  the  better  to  drink  in  every  word 
he  uttered.  Innumerable  times  he  had  enjoyed  the  conscious 
ness  of  intellectual  power,  but  it  might  have  been  his  vanity 
giving  it  a  coloring  which  in  no  wise  belonged  to  it,  that  lent  it 
now  such  an  inexpressible  zest. 

At  ten  o'clock,  he  took  his  leave,  and  as  he  bent  deferentially 
before  the  young  girl,  he  murmured  in  so  low  a  voice  that  it 
did  not  reach  the  mother's  ear : — 

"  We  must  see  about  that,  Miss  Naomi,  we  must  see  about 
that." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  47 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  next  morning,  Naomi  was  alone  in  the  parlor,  her  mother 
not  having  yet  quitted  her  room,  when  Mr.  Fairford  walked  in 
and  took  a  seat  beside  her,  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  and  that  instead  of  his  study  this  were  his 
proper  place. 

Naomi  was  very  glad  to  see  him,  and  showed  it  ingenuously  in 
the  animation  of  her  face  and  manner.  They  talked.  Naomi's 
ideas  flowed  into  words  as  spontaneously  as  the  clouds  melt 
into  rain — and  he,  bathing  his  world-wearied  soul  in  this  fresh 
fountain  of  youth  and  bright  illusions,  seemed  to  himself  to 
taste  again  the  pure,  sweet  waters  of  his  own  lost  youth.  Two 
hours  had  flown,  when  Mrs.  Torrente  presented  herself,  and 
Mr.  Fairford,  after  chatting  a  moment,  went  into  his  study. 

With  the  difference  that  every  day  the  pretext  of  the  study 
was  more  and  more  undisguisedly  laid  aside,  matters  went  on 
this  way  for  a  week ;  morning  and  eve  found  him  by  Naomi's 
side,  apparently  forgetful  of  all  else,  and  she,  with  a  new  joy 
in  her  heart,  and  a  new  light  in  her  eyes.  Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Tor- 
rente,  though  she  had  no  worldly  experience,  and  possessed 
consequently  little  penetration,  saw,  simply  because  it  was  so 
plain  that  the  blind  could  have  seen  it,  that  the  whole  affair  of 
the  study  was  a  subterfuge  to  gain  admittance  to  her  house ; 
and  seeking  for  an  explanation  of  this  mystery,  her  innocent 
fancy  built  up  upon  the  usually  solid  foundations  of  such  edifices 
a  beautiful  little  castle  in  the  air,  which,  divested  of  its  super 
fluous  ornaments,  was  simply  this  : — 

Mr.  Fairford  had  seen  Naomi  in  the  street,  and  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and  not  knowing  any  one  who  could  present  him,  had 
taken  this  means  to  make  her  acquaintance. 


48  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

He  loved  her,  that  was  evident ;  why,  then,  should  he  not 
offer  her  his  hand  ?  Naomi  evidently  loved  him ;  if  not,  why 
manifest  such  absorbed  interest  in  his  society  ?  Thus  it  was 
all  quite  clearly  and  definitely  settled  in  Mrs.  Torrente's  mind, 
and  she  waited  patiently  for  time  to  develop  what  she  had  so 
summarily  disposed  of. 

Meanwhile,  Naomi,  left  hour  after  hour  alone  with  Mr.  Fair- 
ford,  for  her  mother  had  severe  nervous  attacks  which  confined 
her  almost  constantly  to  her  bed,  had  no  other  protection  than 
her  proud,  fearless  innocence,  armed  with  which  she  bravely 
encountered  whatever  danger  and  temptation  might  have  lain 
in  this  intimate  communion  with  a  man  so  conversant  with  all 
the  insidious  approaches  to  an  unguarded  heart. 

Day  after  day  he  spoke  to  her  of  the  stage,  of  the  wild  joy 
of  its  inspiration,  the  intoxication  of  its  triumphs,  till  the  force 
of  his  glowing  words  transported  her  into  a  world  of  poetry  and 
passion,  where  her  ardent  heart  expanded,  and  she  seemed  to 
breathe  with  a  new  sense  of  life. 

One  day,  when  he  had  got  her  raised  to  the  usual  pitch  of 
enthusiasm,  he  said  suddenly  : — 

"Naomi,  what  a- proud  privilege  it  would  be  to  me  to  give 
you  a  career.  What  would  you  say  to  such  a  proposition  from, 
me?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Simply  this,  I  will  take  you,  mamma  and  all  to  New  York, 
and  establish  you  there;  provide  you  teachers,  wardrobe,  en 
gagement,  what  not :  and  when  you  shall  be  a  great  singer — 
coining  money,  you  shall  pay  it  all  back  to  me  again." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  jesting." 

"  Never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life.     Do  you  accept  ?" 

"  Why,  if  you  really  are  in  earnest,  and  if  you  really  think 
I  should  not  be  putting  myself  under  obligations  that  I  never 
could  repay,  why  you  know  that  I  should  be  too  happy— too 
overpowerjngly  happy  to  accept." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  49 

"  Very  well,  I  go  this  afternoon  to  New  York — no,  not 
about  that  now — for  other  business.  I  shall  return  on  Monday, 
then  we  will  talk  more.  Two  days — two  whole  days  without 
seeing  you." 

She  looked  down.  He  gently  took  one  of  her  little  hands.  Once 
or  twice  he  had  done  so  before,  but  there  had  always  been  a 
gentle  but  steady  drawing  away,  which  constrained  him  to  release 
it.  There  was  the  same  instinctive  shrinking  now.  With  a 
slight  roguish  smile,  he  let  the  hand  slip  from  his  grasp.  Then 
he  rose,  and  stood  before  her. 

"  Good-by,  Naomi !"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand.           , 

She  gave  him  hers,  and  rose.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then  as  though  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  clasped 
both  her  hands,  and  bending  toward  her,  silently  solicited  a 
kiss.  She  held  him  off  at  arms'  length,  and  said  blushing  and 
laughing : — 

"  No,  Mr.  Fairford  ;  no,  I  never  kiss  gentlemen." 

.Her  air  and  attitude  were  very  charming — so  full  of  arch 
coquetry,  and  yet  so  childishly  innocent. 

"Well — well — as  you  please,  naive  child.  Till  Monday, 
good-by.  Think  of  what  I  have  said.  I  mean  it  very,  very 
seriously." 

Alone,  she  fell  into  a  profound  reverie,  where  a  thousand 
vague  thoughts  blent  and  lost  themselves  one  within  another. 
There  was  one  person,  at  least,  in  the  world  besides  her  mother, 
who  cared  for  her,  to  whom  her  life  or  death  was  not  a  matter 
of  entire  indifference.  A  little  tranquil  home  in  New  York  very 
like  this  externally,  but  how  changed  and  brightened  to  her  by 
the  new  purpose  that  had  entered  her  soul — he  would  come 
sometimes  to  see  her ;  without  the  cheering  inspiration  of  his 
voice,  without  his  clear,  far-sighted  counsels,  her  life  would  be 
incomplete. 

There  was  no  thought  of  love  in  this.  The  heart  that  had 
once  been  made  imperfectly  aware  of  its  own  existence  (she 
remembered  it  even  in  the  midst  of  her  dreams  with  a  sup- 


50  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

pressed  sigh),  was  enamored  now  of  art ;  and  marriage,  with  its 
daily  recurring  cares  and  vexations,  sobering  joy  to  a  tame  quiet 
affection,  and  equalizing  life  in  a  placid  calm,  had  but  few 
charms  for  Naomi's  nature,  with  its  ideal  needs,  its  passionate 
longing  thirst  for  love,  and  its  craving  for  alternate  excitement 
and  calm — less  than  ever  now,  when  all  the  enthusiasm  of  her 
nature,  smouldering  for  years,  had  suddenly  kindled  into  a  pure 
flame,  and  burned  brightly  on  the  altar  of  art. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  next  day  Colonel  Familiar,  who  divided  his  time  between 
New  York  and' "Washington,  arrived  in  town,  and  dropped  in 
upon  them  very  unexpectedly.  Mrs.  Torrente,  who  was  much 
better,  was  able  to  see  him,  and,  chatting  quite  confidentially 
with  him  as  usual,  she  spoke  of  Mr.  Fairford. 

"Know  the  gentleman  very  well  by  reputation,"  the  old 
Colonel  said,  "  he  is  a  man  of  talent  and  eloquence ;  and  the 
best  proof  of  that  is  that  these  qualities  won  him  a  rich  wife." 

""Won  him  a  rich  wife  !  Is  he  married  then?"  Mrs.  Tor- 
rente's  face  was  unfortunately  very,  very  tell-tale,  and  expressed 
now  all  the  astonishment,  disappointment,  and  even  anger  that 
such  an  unlooked-for  piece  of  intelligence  could  not  fail  to 
inspire. 

"  Been  married  some  two  or  three  years.  I  recollect  the  cir 
cumstance  quite  well  from  the  fact  that,  her  family  being  very 
much  opposed  to  the  match,  she  very  quietly  walked  off  one 
day,  and  returned  home  Mrs.  Fairford." 

Mrs.  Torrente's  head  was  in  a  whirl.  "With  all  a  mother's 
trouble  for  her  child  in  her  wistful  glance,  she  turned  her  eyes 
on  Naomi.  The  Colonel's  quick  eye  noticed  Mrs.  Torrente's 
emotion,  and  it  was  a  very  easy  matter  for  a  man  of  experience 
to  venture  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  cause.  Curious  to  observe  the 
effect  upon  Naomi,  who  was  rather  a  puzzle  to  his  worldly, 
commonplace  mind,  he  leaned  his  chin  upon  his  hands  clasped 
over  the  knob  of  his  cane,  and  looked,  with  a  little  laughing 
malice  in  his  eyes,  intently  at  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  a  low  rocking-chair  by  one  of  the  windows, 
reading  absorbedly.  Had  she  heard  anything  of  the  conversa 
tion  ?  Surely  not.  Her  heavy  eyelashes  hid  her  eyes,  but  her 


52  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

face  wore  the  melancholy,  intellectual  calm  that  always  pervaded 
it  when  in  repose,  that  expression  that  had  often  induced  ordi 
nary  observers  to  call  her  face  passionless.  Passionless!  ay, 
even  as  the  ocean  in  repose  is  passionless. 

The  Colonel,  wishing  to  do  away  with  the  disagreeable  effect 
his  words  had  produced,  tried  to  change  the  subject ;  but  poor 
Mrs.  Torrente  was  abstracted  and  answered  at  random,  and  he 
soon  took  his  leave. 

Mrs.  Torrente  sat  in  thought  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  said : 

"  Naomi,  darling,  come  here." 

The  young  girl,  still  holding  her  book,  drew  near. 

"  Sit  down  there  on  the  cushion  at  my  feet.  I  can  do  with 
out  it  for  a  moment.  Are  you  comfortable  so  ?" 

"Yes,  dear  mamma." 

At  a  loss  how  to  begin,  the  mother  stroked  Naomi's  silky 
hair  in  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then  said,  almost  falteringly  : 

"  Did  you  hear  what  the  Colonel  said,  Naomi  ?" 

"  About  Mr.  Fairford  ?    Yes.     What  of  it  ?" 

Often  of  late  years  the  mother  had  felt  an  undefined  impres 
sion  that  she  did  not  quite  understand  her  child's  nature,  and  as 
she  contemplated  now  the  young  girl's  composed  face  and  man 
ner,  the  thought  came  back  upon  her  with  the  force  of  a  con 
viction.  She  had  been  mistaken,  then,  in  her  firm  belief  that 
Naomi  loved  Mr.  Fairford,  that  was  one  great  comfort. 

"  You  say  that  so  naturally,  child,"  she  resumed,  "  that  I  see 
very  plainly  that  in  your  innocence  you  do  not  understand  any 
thing  about  the  matter.  But  I,  who  have  more  experience  and 
some  knowledge  of  men,  can  explain  it  to  you.  Mr.  Fairford 
did  not  want  any  study  to  write  in,  since  he  has  never  written 
one  word  in  this  house.  I  knew  this  some  days  ago,  but  I  sup 
posed  him  to  be  unmarried,  and  that  possibly,  probably,  he 
might  wish  to  make  you  his  wife,  and  this,  provided  it  had 
pleased  you  equally,  would  have  had  my  entire  approval.  But 
this  is  not  so,  cannot  be  so,  since  he  is  a  married  man.  What  do 
you  suppose  he  seeks  here  then?  Why,  you  cannot  guess. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  53 

He  has  seen  you  in  the  street,  followed  you  home,  learned  that 
you  were  a  friendless  orphan  girl,  with  no  one  to  call  him  to 
account  for  anything  he  might  accomplish — and  the  rest  is  very 
plain." 

The  young  girl's  eager,  listening  eyes  wore  an  expression  half 
startled,  half  incredulous,  and  round  the  mouth  there  wavered 
an  undefinable  expression,  an  approach  to  a  smile,  but  such  a 
peculiar  smile,  such  a  one  as  a  bold  hunter  might  wear  as,  with 
his  trusty  weapon  calmly  prepared,  he  watches  the  charge  of  a 
furious  beast ;  a  haughty,  defiant  pleasure  in  the  sense  of  dan 
ger,  and  a  kind  of  compassionate,  yet  mocking  disdain,  were 
mingled  in  it.  Yet,  withal,  so  faintly  marked  were  these  shades 
of  feeling  that  only  a  clear,  practised,  intellectual  eye  could  read 
them. 

She  shook  her  head  as  her  mother  finished  speaking,  and 
answered : 

"  No,  dear  mamma,  I  cannot  think  that.  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  saw  me  in  the  street,  or  ever  came  here  with  any  such  pur 
pose.  You  know  that  he  is  positively  to  deliver  an  address  in 
New  York,  for  he  has  shown  us  a  paper  in  which  it  is 
announced.  What  I  think  is,  that  he  came  here  to  write,  as  he 
said,  but  that  he  found  our  society  agreeable  (for  conversation 
is  a  great  pleasure  to  the  intellectual),  and  so  in  that  way  has 
failed  to  follow  out  what  he  proposed  to  himself." 

"  You  are  a  child  ;  you  do  not  see  clearly.  It  is  as  plain  to 
me  as  daylight.  "When  he  returns  I  shall — " 

"Dear  mother,  dear  mother,  I  beg  for  my  sake  do  not  think 
of  such  a  thing.  Why  I  would  not  for  the  world,  not  for  the 
whole  world,  that  you  should  speak  to  him  of  this.  Besides, 
after  all,  what  does  it  matter  what  ideas  he  may  have  ?  It  is 
one  thing  to  have  intentions,  and  quite  another  to  be  able  to 
carry  them  into  execution." 

The  mother  heard  these  words  with  a  kind  of  astonishment, 
accompanied  as  they  were  by  a  proud  lift  of  the  head,  and  slight 
but  firm  compression  of  the  lips. 


54:  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

There  was  more  in  Naomi  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  of. 
Slowly  she  said : 

"  Yes ;  but  there  are  two  things  that  I  do  not  understand  at 
all.  I  have  every  confidence  in  you,  my  darling  child,  but 
temptation  is  a  very  dangerous  thing ;  we  should  never  seek  it. 
Eecollect  what  the  Bible  says,  '  Take  heed  lest  you  fall.'  In 
the  second  place,  I  don't  see  why  under  the  circumstances  you 
should  wish  Mr.  Fairford  to  remain  here." 

Naomi  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  mother's  knee,  and  gently 
clasped  her  hand. 

"  Dear  mamma,  let  me  tell  you  what  he  said  to  me  at  our  last 
interview."  And  she  repeated  word  for  word  the  conversation. 
"  Now  do  you  see  that,  instead  of  evil  intent,  as  you  imagine, 
he  is  friend  enough  to  wish  to  aid  me  to  realize  my  darling 
dream,  and  acquire  fame  and  fortune.  Of  course  his  pecuniary 
assistance  would  be  but  a  temporary  thing,  for  I  would  sooner 
die  than  remain  under  obligations  to  him,  but  that  would  not 
render  it  any  the  less  a  favor  on  his  part." 

"0!  Naomi,"  her  mother  said,  with  a  distrustful  shake 
of  the  head,  "  this  only  confirms  my  conviction  of  the  truth 
of  what  I  have  told  you.  He  thinks  to  win  you  thus. 
What  better  means  could  he  adopt?  It  would  be  a  fearful 
risk.1' 

A  shade  fell  suddenly  over  the  young  girl's  expressive  fea 
tures.  She  raised  her  head,  and  coldly  withdrew  her  hand  from 
her  mother's  clasp. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  said,  proudly,  "  but  that  does  not 
matter.  Since  you  hold  your  daughter  so  lightly  as  to  think 
that  her  safety  lies  not  in  herself,  but  in  the  honor  of  those 
about  her,  why  let  it  go  so — say  no  more  about  it." 

She  moved  to  rise,  but  Mrs.  Torrente,  grieved  to  the  heart  at 
having  wounded  her,  caught  her  in  her  arms  and  drew  her  down 
upon  her  knee. 

"  Dear,  darling  child,"  she  said,  "  'tis  not  that  I  distrust  you. 
Heaven  forbid !  'Tis  only  a  mother's  fond,  timid  heart  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  55 

speaks.  But  come,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish  ;  though  you  know, 
Naomi,  I  cannot  like  this  project  of  the  stage." 

Naomi  slowly  turned  her  eyes  all  around  the  room,  and  there 
was  a  depth  of  sadness  so  far  passing  words  in  that  most  elo 
quent  look,  that  the  mother,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  mur 
mured  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Poor  child  !  poor  child  !  you  are  right." 

Thus  the  matter  rested  for  the  time. 


56  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XL 

evening  Mr.  Fairford  returned,  and  finding  the  street 
door  of  Mrs.  Torrente's  house  open,  as  is  customary  during  the 
warm  weather  in  Washington,  entered  unannounced,  shook 
hands  very  cordially  with  Mrs.  Torrente,  who  was  alone  in  the 
parlor,  and  sat  down,  chatting  in  a  lively  vein  about  his  jour 
ney,  New  York,  etc. 

Naomi,  who  was  above,  heard  his  voice,  and  prompted  by 
an  impulse  the  nature  of  which  she  did  not  stop  to  inquire  into, 
and  which  she  might  have  found  rather  difficult  to  define,  loi 
tered  much  longer  than  there  was  even  any  excuse  for  doing 
before  descending.  Then,  entering  the  parlor  with  an  indiffe 
rent  air,  she  uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  surprise  at  sight  of 
Mr.  Fairford,  as  if  she  had  been  quite  unconscious  of  his  arrival. 
Probably  the  explanation  of  this  little  bit  of  coquettish  insin 
cerity  on  her  part  was  an  unconscious  wish  to  show  him  that  he 
had  not  been  so  much  missed  in  his  absence,  nor  his  return  so 
anxiously  watched  for  as  his  vanity  might  lead  him  to  sup 
pose. 

After  a  little  Mrs.  Torrente  wearied,  and  exchanged  her  arm 
chair  for  the  sofa,  where,  with  cushions  shaken  up  and  arranged 
by  Mr.  Fairford,  she  soon  sank  to  sleep.  Then  Mr.  Fairford 
said: 

"  Naomi,  will  you  not  sit  here  by  the  window  ?  See  how 
lovely  the  night  is.  Allow  me  to  place  your  chair — so!  let 
the  moonlight  shine  upon  that  placid,  intellectual  brow.  Pure, 
cold,  and  radiant,  'tis  a  fit  light  to  illumine  you." 

"  Am  I  such  a  cold,  heartless  being?"  she  asked  laughingly. 

"  I  said  wrongly.    You  are  not  cold,  save  by  repression." 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  57 

"  How  grateful  the  soft,  warm  air  is,"  she  said,  wishing  to 
change  the  conversation. 

"  Naomi,"  he  said  suddenly,  without  heeding  her  remark,  "  I 
have  a  confession  to  make  to  you,  and  pardon  to  crave.  No — 
there  is  no  need  to  look  away,  with  that  startled  look,  'tis  nothing 
you  might  fear  to  hear.  It  was  a  fault,  'tis  true,  but  yet  not  one 
committed  through  any  evil  intention,  but  simply  from  a  wish  to 
study  human  nature  under  a  form  so  new,  fresh,  and  enticing  as 
was  presented  to  me  in  you  ;  Naomi,  my  confession  is  this :  I 
am  a  married  many 

"  I  know  it."  She  said  it  with  her  eyes  full  upon  him,  and 
there  was  no  surprise,  no  sorrow,  no  annoyance  in  their  serene 
depths.  "Was  it  wrong  not  to  tell  us  before,  think  you? 
What  business  was  it  of  ours  whether  you  were  married  or 
single  ?" 

Through  the  calm  kindness  of  her  tone  cut  the  keen  edge  of 
a  scarce  conscious  scorn.  She  saw  in  the  warm  flush  of  his 
brow,  visible  even  in  the  pale  moonlight,  how  deeply  she  had 
wounded  his  vanity.  But  he  was  not  one  to  be  driven  thus  to 
the  wall  without  an  effort  to  defend  himself.  There  was  a  little 
of  the  gall  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice  as  he  answered : 

"  Some  young  ladies  with  less  modesty  and  less  judgment 
than  yourself,  Miss  Naomi,  might  have  imagined  that  my  man 
ner  indicated  something  more  than  simple  friendship,  and  in  this 
way  I  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  very  grave  fault." 

"  I  never  did,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  as  frozen  as  her  face  was 
marbly  white  in  the  moonbeams.  "  I  think  you  like  my  soci 
ety  and  I  like  yours,  nothing  more." 

With  all  his  self-control  and  consummate  address,  he  was  fain 
to  change  the  subject.  With  an  attempt  at  a  careless  laugh,  he 
said : 

"  Since  it  is  all  just  exactly  as  it  should  be,  let  us  say  no 
more  about  it.  Let  us  speak  of  something  more  interesting  to 
you,  and  consequently  more  agreeable  to  me — of  your  profes 
sion,  Naomi." 


58  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

The  set  lines  of  her  mouth  relaxed  very,  very  slightly,  and 
there  was  one  degree  less  of  coldness  in  her  eyes ;  yet  the  face 
did  not  smile  with  its  accustomed  warmth  when  animated  by 
conversation.  He  went  on  : 

"  I  have  been  dreaming  of  the  night  of  your  debut— of  the 
welcome  the  public  will  accord  to  the  young  cantatrice.  .  What 
will  be  your  emotions,  Naomi,  when  the  proud  day  comes  (for 
come  it  surely  must)  in  which  you  shall  hold  a  breathless  au 
dience  in  the  palm  of  your  hand,  and  receive  the  intoxicating 
incense  of  applause  that  shall  crown  the  triumph  of  your 
genius." 

She  wavered.  She  could  not  help  it.  Melting  suddenly  into 
her  usual  self— half  child,  half  woman — she  said,  with  down 
cast  eyes : 

"  You  natter  me,  Mr.  Fairford ;  yet,  I  must  confess,  so  well 
do  you  understand  the  art  of  flattery  that  it  is  agreeable  even 
though  I  know  it  to  be  such." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  to  be  flattery  ?  Do  you  not  hope,  or 
rather,  do  you  not  believe  that  you  will  rise  to  the  first  rank  in 
your  profession  ?" 

"I  do  assuredly,  otherwise  I  should  certainly  not  wish  to 
adopt  it." 

"  Well,  then,  do  not  call  my  simple  expression  of  opinion 
flattery.  As  soon  as  I  have  transacted  some  business  I  have  on 
hand  here,  we  will  see  about  our  project,  for  it  depends  in  a 
great  degree  on  the  success  of  this  business.  There  are  obsta 
cles  to  be  overcome,  but  I  trust  they  are  not  insurmount 
able." 

A  chill  of  unconscious  and  unacknowledged  distrust  and  sus 
picion  contracted  Naomi's  heart  as  she  heard  these  ambiguous 
expressions.  He  saw,  and  hastened  to  efface  the  impression. 

"  The  career  of  an  artiste,  Naomi,  is  one  of  trial,  as  well  as 
of  pleasure.  There  are  temptations,  annoyances,  and  a  great 
deal  of  hard  work.  Do  you  think  you  will  be  willing  to  drudge 
for  a  while  ?" 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  59 

Thoughtfully  she  turned  her  face  towards  the  street,  and 
resting  her  elbows  on  the  sill  of  the  window,  gazed  up  at  the 
stars. 

"I  will  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  it,"  she  said.  "I  want  an 
aim,  an  object  in  existence.  Matrimony  has  always  seemed  to 
me  rather  a  dull  and  stupid  affair.  I  mean  I  think  it  would  be 
so  to  me,  and  my  present  solitary,  monotonous  life  is  more  than 
wearisome — it  is  sometimes  burdensome.  I  am  willing  to 
drudge,  then,  as  you  call  it,  and  willing  to  encounter  temptations 
and  annoyances.  They  will  be  something  to  combat  and  some 
thing  to  overcome." 

"  It  is  strange  to  hear  a  young  girl  speak  thus  sincerely,  as  I 
know  you  do,  of  matrimony  ;  which  is  generally  the  thing  they 
most  dream  of  and  most  long  for.  Why  is  it  ?" 

"  For  one  thing,  I  love  my  freedom.  For  another,  I  long  for 
independence — pecuniary  independence — more  than  anything 
else  in  this  world,  and  married  I  could  never  have  that." 

"  Fierce  young  eaglet !  you  would  make  your  eyrie  on  the 
top  of  an  inaccessible  mountain,  where  no  bold  hunter  may 
ever  reach  to  catch  and  cage  you.  Will  you  not  weary  of 
your  wild  solitude,  so  far  removed  from  human  sympathy  ?" 

"  He  who  wearies  of  liberty  deserves  to  be  a  slave.  Do 
not  believe  that  /  ever  shall  in  this  way  merit  to  forfeit 
mine." 

"Love,  I  perceive,  has  no  part  in  the  programme  of  your 
life.  Is  the  great  ruling  power  of  the  universe  to  be  utterly 
ignored,  and  for  ever  banished  ?" 

"  All  dedicating  themselves  to  art  and  fame  should  render 
themselves  up  to  that,  and  that  alone.  The  love  and  enthu 
siasm  of  an  artistic  life  should  satisfy  the  heart." 

"  And  you  believe  this  theory  practicable  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  0 !  what  a  child  you  are !  Well,  well,  we  shall  see  how 
bravely  you  carry  out  your  projects.  If  you  succeed  you  will 
have  the  triumph  of  being  unprecedented  ;  and  if  you  fail,  the 


60  NAOMI  TORKENTE  : 

consolation  of  knowing  that  you  have  only  done  what  every 
one  else  does.  You  have  rare  abilities,  Naomi." 

"  Flattering  again.  See  !  mamma  stirs  restlessly.  It  is  time 
for  me  to  take  her  to  bed.  I  will  wake  her." 

"  Let  me  say  good-night  first.  At  least  I  may  press  a  kiss 
on  this  little  hand  ?  No  ?  Ah  !  that  is  too  hard.  We  kiss 
the  Queen's  hand,  you  know,  so  I  will  do  you  homage  in 
spite  of  yourself.  You  are  regal  in  your  tastes,  and  love  it, 
I  know.  Good  night." 

She  laughed  and  blushed  a  little,  as  with  these  gay  words 
he  snatched  a  kiss  from  her  hand  and  disappeared,  and  re 
mained  for  some  minutes  standing  where  he  left  her,  lost  in 
a  sweet  castle-building  reverie,  till  rousing  herself,  she  went 
with  her  sweet  face  lit  up  with  the  glow  of  hope  in  the  future 
to  wake  her  mother. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  61 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  lingering  remains  of  Mrs.  Torrente's  incredulity  yielded 
entirely  when  some  days  after  Mr.  Fairford  took  occasion  to 
speak  to  her  alone  of  his  enthusiastic  desire  to  aid  Naomi,  of 
his  hopes  in  her  genius,  and  his  admiration  for  the  innocence  and 
purity  of  her  character. 

So  the  path  was  all  clear,  and  he  had  only  to  wait,  he  thought, 
and  let  the  fruit  of  the  desired  and  forbidden  tree  ripen  beneath 
the  influences  he  would  bring  to  bear,  and  then,  with  his  aspir 
ing  hand,  grasp  it  almost  without  an  effort. 

"  I  love  her,"  mused  he  often  on  his  way  to  and  from  her 
home.  "  She  is  irresistibly  attractive  to  me ;  yet  were  I  free 
would  I  woo  her  for  my  wife  ?  Would  I  wed  one  who  has  nei 
ther  wealth  nor  position  to  advance  my  interest  ?  I  suppose  I 
should  strive  even  then  to  win  her  on  my  own  terms.  I  should 
like  to  subdue  her  pride  and  rule  her  will.  It  can  and  shall  be 
done.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  foiled." 

Ah !  good  Mr.  Presumption,  you  were  not  accustomed  to  be 
foiled  ?  Neither  were  you  accustomed  to  attack  one  as  proud 
and  strong  as  yourself;  one  guided  by  a  firm  innate  principle 
of  right,  more  potent  than  all  your  knowledge  and  skill. 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  ill  again  for  several  days,  and  then  how 
Naomi  learned  to  prize  Mr.  Fairford,  to  look  for  him,  almost  to 
lean  on  him,  as  though  indeed  he  had  been  something  to  her ! 
She  was  too  proud  to  be  grateful  for  any  favor,  unless  rendered 
in  a  particularly  delicate  way ;  coming  without  this  requisite 
she  would  have  felt  it  almost  as  an  insult.  Mr.  Fairford  was 
essentially  a  gentleman,  and  consequently  full  of  delicacy  ;  and 
this  quality  was  heightened  in  him  by  his  instinctive  perception 


62  NAOMI  TOREENTE: 

of  Naomi's  character.  He  brought  wines,  and  fruits,  and  every 
little  delicacy  of  the  season  for  the  invalid ;  would  leave  them 
quietly  on  some  side-table ;  and  when  noticed  by  Naomi,  would 
say,  as  though  begging  some  special  favor  for  himself : 

"  I  know  you  cannot  have  time  to  attend  to  these  little  things. 
I  hope  your  mother  will  not  be  displeased,  and  that  you  will 
permit  me  the  privilege  of  ministering  to  her  comfort  by  bring 
ing  her  those  trifles  ?" 

The  first  time  this  happened  Naomi  turned  away  to  hide  the 
moisture  of  her  eyes  (poor  child !  it  was  something  so  new  to 
her),  and  after  a  moment  held  her  hand  out,  saying  earnestly  : 

"  You  are  a  dear,  good  friend.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  I 
appreciate  your  consideration." 

One  afternoon,  while  he  was  sitting  with  her,  a  servant 
brought  a  basket  wrapped  in  tissue  paper ;  and  when,  during  a 
pause  in  the  conversation,  she  ran  up-stairs  to  see  how  her  mo 
ther  was,  she  took  it  with  her.  The  first  thing  that  met  her  eye 
on  unwrapping  it  was  a  lovely  little  fancy  basket,  and  lying 
right  on  top  of  it  a  bunch  (not  a  bouquet)  of  rare  and  beautiful 
flowers.  She  raised  it  with  an  involuntary  exclamation  of  de 
light,  and  as  she  did  so  a  little  ruby  heart,  a  heart  of  flame  . 
indeed,  attached  to  a  gold  black-enamelled  chain,  fell  from  it. 
She  caught  it  up,  and  obeying  her  first  impulse,  turned  towards 
the  bed  and  held  it  before  her  mother.  At  first  the  invalid  saw 
only  the  flowers. 

"  0  !  they  are  beautiful,  darling,"  she  said. 
-  "  And  this,  mamma  ?" 

"  Let  me  see !  a  little  jewel  heart.  It  is  intended  for  you,  of 
course.  What  do  you  think  of  it,  dear?" 

"  I  cannot  accept  it,  mamma.  I  will  take  it  down  now  and 
say  so." 

"  You  are  right.     Kiss  me,  my  precious  child !" 

Naomi  descended  the  stairs  very  slowly,  hesitated  at  the  par 
lor  door,  but  at  length  summoning  courage,  she  entered,  the 
chain  dangling  from  her  hand. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  63 

"  Mr.  Fairford,"  she  said,  "  I  thank  you  very  much  indeed  for 
these  sweet  flowers ;  but  this,"  laying  the  gem  gently  in  the 
palm  of  one  of  his  hands,  "  you  must  keep  for  some  one  who 
has  the  right  to  accept  it." 

"  And  you  then  have  not  the  right  to  accept  it  from  me  as  a 
memento  of  friendship  ?" 

"  It  is  a  costly  trinket.  It  is  not  well,  it  is  not— I  am  sorry, 
but  I  cannot  take  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  Naomi,  but  you  really  have  very  exaggerated 
notions  about  some  things.  You  cannot  accept  a  little  trinket 
not  much  bigger  than  a  pea  from  a  friend ;  how,  then,  can  you 
reconcile  yourself  to  allowing  this  same  person  to  aid  you  in 
your  views  in  regard  to  your  profession  ?" 

This  was  not  like  Mr.  Fairford,  but  for  once  pique  got  the 
better  of  judgment  and  good  taste. 

Naomi's  face  flushed  slightly.  "There  is  just  this  difference," 
she  said  steadily,  "  The  one  is  a  gift,  the  other  a  loan.  Any 
one  may  with  propriety  accept  the  latter ;  only  those  privileged 
to  do  so  can  accept  the  first." 

"  Not  even  a  friend's  offering  ?  Ah  !  you  are  too  sensible  for 
that.  Let  me  clasp  it  round  your  neck.  See,  the  brightly  flash 
ing  little  thing  speaks  only  of  the  steadiness  and  sincerity  of 
my  friendship." 

She  wavered  a  little;  "  I  will  ask  mamma,"  she  said,  hesi 
tatingly. 

"  All  safe !"  thought  Mr.  Fairford,  "  mamma  will  think  what 
ever  she  does." 

The  point  gained,  he  adroitly  changed  the  conversation,  feast 
ing  his  eyes  meanwhile  on  Naomi's  animated  face  and  beautiful 
form.  She  was  dressed  simply  in  white,  and  her  dark  hair  was 
braided  into  a  knot  low  upon  her  neck.  The  shades  of  evening 
were  slowly  gathering,  and  from  the  surrounding  obscurity  her 
figure  stood  out  as  glowingly  as  from  the  heavy  shadows  of  its 
background  beams  on  you  one  of  Eembrandt's  pictures.  As  he 
gazed  on  her,  almost  involuntarily  the  words  came  from  his  lips : 


64:  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"  Naomi,  I  love  you." 

She  started  violently,  and  a  flush  of  vivid  crimson  mantled 
all  her  face.  It  was  the  first  time  that  these  words  in  this  sense 
had  ever  been  addressed  to  her.  Her  eyes  were  bowed  to  earth 
by  a  sense  of  shame  unknown  before.  Very  gravely  she  said : 

"  You  have  no  right  to  love  me — you  do  not,  must  not." 

"  Do  not  degrade  your  lips  with  the  conventional  hypocrisy 
of  the  world,"  he  said  warmly.  "You  have  too  much  pro 
fundity  of  intellect  to  respect  the  shallow  cant  that  says  we 
have  no  right  to  love  under  certain  circumstances.  We  have  a 
right  to  love  whatever  is  lovable,  just  as  we  have  a  right  to 
admire  whatever  is  admirable.  Say  that,  bound  by  ties  which 
cannot  be  ignored,  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  so,  and  you 
will  say  truly.  It  was  wrong.  I  beg  your  pardon.  But 
before  I  leave  for  ever  the  subject  I  have  thus  for  the  first 
time  touched  upon,  tell  me  one  thing,  Naomi.  If  I  were  free, 
would  you  tell  me  then  I  had  no  right  to  love  you  ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  want  to  answer.  Was 
there  a  lurking  thought  that  under  other  circumstances  it 
might  not  have  displeased  her  to  hear  such  words  from  his 
lips  ?  Or  was  it  a  coquettish  wish  to  leave  him  in  ignorance 
on  this  point? 

Or  only  a  distaste  to  wounding  him  unnecessarily?  It 
might  have  been  any  one  of  these ;  it  might  have  been  a 
mixture  of  all.  She  did  not  know  definitely  herself,  and  after 
a  few  moments'  silence,  shaking  off  the  weight  that  oppressed 
her,  she  said  abruptly,  with  a  mischievous  laugh : 

"Come,  Mr.  Fairford,  let  us  talk  no  more  nonsense,  for 
nonsense  it  is,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

He  laughed  too,  and  gaily  sought  to  clasp  her  little  hands, 
which  she,  still  laughing,  wrested  from  him,  and  then  sud 
denly  sobering,  changed  the  subject. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  65 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IF  he  derived  any  encouragement  from  this  conversation,  it 
was  dissipated  by  her  subsequent  demeanor,  which,  though 
running  through  a  thousand  shades  of  variety,  sometimes 
melancholy,  sometimes  gay,  sometimes  full  of  frank  friendship, 
and  at  others  redolent  of  coquetry,  was  always  innocently 
unconscious,  and  always  characterized  by  a  proud,  chaste  fear 
lessness. 

It  was  necessary  for  him  to  return  home.  Probably  he  con 
soled  himself  with  the  reflection  that  with  more  time  and  better 
opportunities  he  might  be  able  to  accomplish  what,  under  pre 
sent  circumstances,  was  impossible. 

Incongruous  as  it  may  seem,  spite  of  his  galled  self-love,  and 
apart  from  all  base  and  selfish  ends,  there  was  at  the  bottom  o>i 
his  heart  a  feeling  of  deep  and  true  tenderness  for  Naomi. 

He  thought,  as  he  went  towards  her  home  for  the  last  time, 
of  all  the  beauty  she  had  lent  his  life  for  the  past  few  weeks ; 
and  of  the  great  void  that  this,  in  all  probability  his  eternal 
separation  from  her,  would  leave  within  him. 

His  heart,  that  heart  so  taken  up  with  the  world's  vain  strife 
for  place  arid  power,  yearned  towards  her  with  something  of  its 
original  purity  and  Strength. 

He  said  to  himself  that  if  he  only  might,  with  what  a  sense 
of  rest,  with  what  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  'he  would  have, 
gathered  her  to  his  bosom,  lifted  her  in  his  strong  arms,  and 
walked  onward  with  her. 

As  he  neared  the  house,  strangely  saddened  by  these  reflec 
tions,  he  saw  the  object  of  his  thoughts  standing  at  one  of  the 
open  windows  of  her  little  parlor.  She  leaned  out  to  greet  him, 

her  face  all  smiles. 

5 


66  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  0  !  come  in !  come  in  I"  she  cried,  joyously ;  "  mamma  is 
a  great  deal  better  to-day ;"  and  running  towards  him  with  the 
vivacity  of  a  child  as  he  entered,  she  grasped  his  hands  and 
drew  him  to  the  window. 

"  Only  see  this  lovely,  lovely  morning,"  she  said.  "  Every 
thing  is  covered  with  a  soft,  golden  mist,  and  the  air  has  that 
balmy  softness  peculiar  to  the  Indian  summer." 

His  glance,  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it  quite  unusual  in  his 
animated  blue  eyes,  dwelt  thoughtfully  upon  her,  arid  gently 
passing  his  hand  over  her  silken  hair,  as  though  in  truth  she  had 
been  his  child,  he  said : 

"  The  Indian  summer !  You  are  my  Indian  summer,  Naomi. 
As  fresh,  and  soft,  and  bright ;  as  dreamy  and  joyous,  and 
yet  with  that  indefinable  something  of  sweet,  tender  melancholy 
breathing  through  all.  Yes,  Naomi,  you  are  the  Indian  summer 
of  my  life,  the  last  golden  smile  of  my  departing  youth.  Here 
after  all  that  you  personify  will  have  died  out  for  me." 

His  tone  was  mournful.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
half-laughing,  half-serious  wonder  in  her  eyes,  and  said : 

"  You  are  poetical  this  morning,  and  something  more ;  some 
thing  that  I  have  never  seen  you  before — almost  sad.  Is  there 
any  reason  for  it  ?" 

"  The  reason  is  that,  for  a  little  while  at  least "  (he  said  this 
with  an  effort,  for  the  better  part  of  his  nature  shrank  now  from 
deceit)  "  I  am  to  be  deprived  of  your  cheering  presence  ;  I  am 
going  home  this  afternoon." 

The  joyous  face  before  him  was  grave  and  thoughtful  in  an 
instant. 

"  Going  so  soon  ?     0 !  I  am  very  sorry.     When "     She 

checked  herself  suddenly.  Delicacy  forbade  her  to  ask  ques 
tions.  He  was  at  liberty  to  say  unasked  all  that  she  could  wish 
to  know ;  if  he  did  not  choose  to  speak  voluntarily,  why  she 
must  remain  in  ignorance.  She  never,  unless  under  the  influ 
ence  of  strong  excitement,  could  be  said  to  have  color,  but  the 
almost  imperceptible  tinge  of  pink  usually  upon  her  cheek  was 


THE   HISTOEY  OF  A  WOMAN.  67 

quite  gone  now.  He,  too,  was  pale,  his  manner  strangely  ner 
vous,  and  his  restless  eyes  sought  the  ground  to  avoid  encoun 
tering  hers. 

"  I  am  glad  to  know,"  he  said,  speaking  almost  hurriedly, 
"  that  I  leave  your  dear  mother  better.  I  don't  want  to  trouble 
her  to  come  down ;  let  me  go  up  and  say  good-bye.  You  can 
remain  here — there  can  be  no  impropriety,  then,  surely  ?  may 
I  ?"  She  bowed  assent,  and  with  a  quick  step  he  hastened  above 
stairs  and  tapped  gently  at  Mrs.  Torrente's  door.  Her  voice 
said  "come  in,"  and  he  entered.  She  rose  from  her  arm 
chair  at  sight  of  him,  and  said,  cordially  holding  out  both  her 
hands : 

"  Why,  Mr.  Fairford.  This  is  a  surprise ;  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you." 

"  Glad  to  bid  me  God  speed,"  he  said  with  a  forced  laugh. 
"  I  go  home  this  afternoon." 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long,"  she  said,  with  a  cheerful  smile, 
"  will  it?  We  shall  very  soon  meet  again  ?" 

Her  words,  so  fall  of  fervent  trust  in  him,  smote  him,  and  he 
almost  shrank — but  he  must  keep  it  up  to  the  end. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Torrente,  I  shall,  of  course,  write  very  soon.  I 
owe  you  many  thanks.  O  !  believe  me,  the  brightest,  happiest 
days  that  I  have  seen  for  many  a  year  I  have  passed  beneath 
your  roof.  Good-bye  !  good-bye  until  we  meet  again." 

He  shook  her  hand  warmly,  then  turned  away,  and  rapidly 
descending  the  stairs,  re-entered  the  parlor.  Naomi  still  stood 
where  he  had  left  her,  with  drooping  head  and  fixed  eyes, 
lost  in  melancholy  thought.  He  drew  near,  holding  out  his 
hand : 

"Good-bye,  Naomi,  my  last  illusion,  my  last — last  glimpse 
of  the  heavenly  promised  land.  Good-bye!  one 'kiss,  Naomi, 
but  one !  a  brother's  parting  kiss." 

She  did  not  smile,  she  did  not  resist,  but  like  a  statue  suf 
fered  him  to  press  one  kiss  upon  her  lips.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  utter  one  more  deceitful  word ;  his  heart  had 


NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


grown  too  large  for  the  debasing  aims  that  it  had  nourished. 
He  held  her  hand  in  his  a  moment  longer,  and  then,  ashamed 
of  a  weakness  he  could  not  master,  released  it,  and  passed 
rapidly  from  the  house. 


THE  HISTORY  OF   A  WOMAN.  69 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHAT  need  to  say  no  letter  ever  came  from  Mr.  Fairford  !    The 

«/ 

bright  episode  that  had  aroused  Naomi's  intellect  and  awakened 
her  ambition,  casting  over  the  future  that  lay  so  barrenly  before 
her  the  radiant  glow  of  promise,  was  at  an  end — no  more 
dreams  as  glorious  as  youth,  as  infinite  as  life  seems  to  the 
young.  No ;  if  she  dreamed  now  it  must  be  of  shadowy,  im 
palpable  forms,  not  the  glowing,  breathing  creations  that  the 
magic  of  his  eloquent  words  called  up. 

As  days  rolled  into  weeks,  and  weeks  into  months,  bringing 
gradually  the  conviction  that  all  had  been  mere  vain,  empty 
words,  without  the  shadow  of  a  purpose,  it  was  Mrs.  Torrente 
who  in  her  undeception  suffered  the  most  cruel  disappointment ; 
for  she  it  had  been  who,  her  incredulity  once  vanquished,  had 
trusted  most  implicitly ;  while,  unacknowledged  even  to  herself, 
Naomi  had  a  kind  of  intuitive  doubt  which  in  some  degree  pre 
pared  her  for  the  result. 

It  was  very  natural  that  with  a  person  of  Mrs.  Torrente's 
character  resentment  for  an  intended  wrong  should  take  the 
place  of  friendship. 

Not  so  Naomi.  Thus  would  she  answer^  her  mother's  harsh 
denunciations  of  Mr.  Fairford : 

"  If  that  were  really  his  purpose,  dear  mother,  be  satisfied 
that  he  did  not  accomplish  it.  He  never  harmed  me ;  on  the 
contrary,  he  has  done  me  more  good  than  any  one,  except  your 
self,  in  the  world." 

"  In  what  way,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  He  has  developed  my  mind  and  character — shown  me  to 
myself.  His  friendship  has  been  an  event  in  my  life." 


70  NAOMI  TOEEENTE: 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  thus  at  last  softened,  though  she  never 
entirely  forgave  Mr.  Fairford  the  treacherous  part  he  had 
played. 

In  the  old  way  passed  the  winter  and  spring,  and  summer 
found  them  as  the  first  chapter  has  described. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  71 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  next  evening  about  the  same .  hour  Mrs.  Torrente  was  in 
the  parlor,  rather  nervously  awaiting  the  Colonel's  appearance. 
Naomi  descended  a  few  minutes  after  her  mother,  and  singularly 
enough,  instead  of  entering  the  parlor  as  usual,  strayed  out  into 
the  little  garden.  The  house,  standing  on  the  highest  rise  of  the 
"White  House  hill,  was  but  little  passed.  She  had  been  watching 
the  windings  of  the  Potomac  and  the  shifting  clouds  for  some 
time,  when,  happening  to  turn  her  head,  she  saw  the  Colonel 
and  a  stranger  approaching.  She  drew  back  quickly  and  allow 
ed  them  to  enter,  and  the  Colonel  saying  in  his  brief,  military 
way  :  "  Mr.  Mayance,  Miss  Torrente,"  led  the  way  into  the  house. 
Mr.  Mayance,  with  a  profound  bow  to  the  young  girl,  followed 
her  in  silence,  and  sat  down  by  her  side  after  being  presented  to 
Mrs.  Torrente. 

"  You  were  admiring  the  beauties  of  the  summer  sunset,  Miss 
Torrente  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  I  was  doing ;  dreaming,  I  believe  as 
much  as  anything." 

"  I  have  noticed  that  it  is  the  custom  here  in  Washington  for 
young  ladies  to  walk  near  their  homes  at  sunset,  with  bare  heads 
and  linked  arms.  It  is  a  very  pretty  custom,  I  think,  but  one 
which  struck  me  at  first  as  very  strange." 

"You  do^not  belong  to  "Washington,  then?" 

"  0  !  no.     I  am  from  great,  whirling,  Babel-like  New  York." 

During  the  interchange  of  these  few  words  Naomi  had  been 
unconsciously  taking  note  of  Mr.  Mayance's  appearance.  She 
had  seen  at  the  first  glance  that  his  figure  was  remarkably  fine, 
and  his  bearing  very  elegant.  She  observed  now  that  his  fea 
tures,  though  not  regular,  were  well  formed,  his  dark  brown 


72  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

eyes  liquid  and  expressive,  his  hair  of  a  soft  brown,  and  his 
complexion  almost  as  delicately  tinged  as  a  woman's. 

He  wore  a  moustache,  and  a  beard  of  a  graceful  length.  His 
conversation  was  intelligent  and  his  manner  perfectly  well-bred, 
and  Naomi  in  conversing  with  him  found  herself  entirely  at 
ease. 

She  played  and  sang  for  him,  and  they  chatted  pleasantly  for 
nearly  an  hour,  when  he  and  the  Colonel  took  their  leave.  Mrs. 
Torrente  was  delighted  with  Mr.  Mayance.  Turning  to  Naomi 
with  a  beaming  smile,  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  when  I  have 
seen  a  gentleman  so  handsome — so  well-bred,  intelligent,  and 
amiable.  Don't  you  think  so,  child  ?" 

Naomi  had  just  closed  the  piano,  and  stood  with  one  hand 
resting  on  it,  with  her  far-off  look  in  her  eyes.  She  glanced 
quickly  round  at  her  mother's  question  and  answered  slowly : 

"  Yes,  very,  very — as  you  say,  dear  mamma." 

The  mother  was  not  very  penetrating,  but  this  answer  was 
so  very  unsatisfactory  that  an  expression  of  deep  disappoint 
ment  crossed  her  face,  and  she  said  no  more. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  73 


CHAPTEE  XVI. 

TOWARDS  noon  the  next  day  Mr.  Graspar  Mayance  was  sitting 
in  his  room  in  the  house  of  a  relative,  situated  in  Twelfth  street, 
near  the  Avenue,  chatting  with  Colonel  Familiar,  who  had  saun 
tered  round  to  see  his  friend  after  breakfast,  mainly  with  the 
object  of  ascertaining  how  he  had  been  impressed  by  Naomi. 
Eeclining  in  their  cozy  arm-chairs  by  the  open  window,  enjoying 
the  fresh  morning  air  and  their  cigars,  they  had  been  speaking 
about  everything  except  what  was  at  the  moment  of  most  inte 
rest  to  the  Colonel,  who  feared,  shrewd  old  fox !  that  by  making 
a  dash  at  it  he  should  put  Mr.  Mayance  on  his  guard  before  the 
bonds  of  love  were  sufficiently  strong  to  hold  him.  Mr.  May 
ance,  on  his  part,  was  dying  to  speak  of  Naomi,  but  a  timidity 
inherent  in  his  character  withheld  him,  until  at  last,  breaking 
through  it  with  an  effort,  he  said : 

"  I  am  indebted  to  you,  Colonel,  for  the  presentation  of  last 
night.  Miss  Torrente  is  very  charming — so  intelligent — and 
what  a  beautiful  figure  she  has." 

"  And  face,  too.     Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  noble  and  intelligent,  and  beautiful  taken  in  connection 
with  her  figure.  She  has  just  that  kind  of  intelligence  one 
admires  in  a  woman ;  just  the  quickness  and  brightness,  without 
that  power  and  originality  of  mind  which  make  a  woman  dan 
gerous  in  domestic  relations — dangerous  I  mean  in  this  way, 
she  would  be  apt  to  want  to  govern  her  husband." 

The  Colonel,  with  a  whiff  of  his  cigar,  nodded  his  head 
approvingly.  These  were  exactly  his  own  views,  and  he  was 
pleased,  too,  to  see  that  his  friend's  thoughts  seemed  to  be  turn-' 
ing  to  matrimony.  He  said  nothing  on  this  point,  however,  and 
Mr.  Mayance  went  on — 


74  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  There's  Clara  Sordam,  my  fortieth  cousin,  whom  you  have 
seen  here,  I  believe ;  really  a  beautiful  girl,  highly  intellectual 
and  well  educated,  but  precisely  on  account  of  having  more 
strength  of  mind  than  women  generally  have,  very  unfit,  I 
should  say,  to  make  any  man  happy.  Mrs.  Torrente  very 
kindly  invited  me  to  visit  them  frequently,  and  I  shall  be  much 
pleased  to  do  so." 

The  Colonel  applauded  this  resolution,  and  gave  Mr.  Mayance 
a  slight  sketch  of  Naomi's  father,  the  circumstances  of  her  mo 
ther's  marriage,  and  after  a  while  left,  feeling  well  assured  that 
things  would  work  themselves  out  without  any  interference  from 
him. 

Mr.  Mayance  would  have  liked  much  to  see  Naomi  !that 
afternoon  ;  but  not  deeming  it  advisable  to  commence  by  show 
ing  too  strong  an  interest,  he  restrained  the  desire  ;  calmed  his 
impatience  by  methodically  answering  some  business  letters  ;  and 
spent  the  evening  at  home  in  a  pleasant  circle,  among  whom  was 
the  gay  and  handsome  cousin  he  had  spoken  of  to  the  Colonel.  . 

At  Mrs.  Torrente's  time  had  relapsed  now  into  its  old,  mono 
tonous  pace,  and  the  hours  lagged  away  unendurably  slow  as 
they  passed,  yet  seeming  to  have  flown  when  looked  back  upon  ; 
for  when  reviewed  they  presented  only  the  unruffled,  unvarying 
calm  of  a  dead,  stagnant  pool. 

In  the  morning  of  the  long  summer  days,  some  slight  domes 
tic  responsibility  devolved  upon  Naomi,  which  lightened  the 
hours  of  their  weariness.  She  rose  early  enough  to  see  that 
breakfast  was  served  at  eight,  in  the  little  back  parlor  (associated 
with  the  brightest  hours  of  her  life),  and  then,  when  her  mo 
ther's  health  permitted,  they  breakfasted  together ;  and  when  it 
did  not,  Naomi  with  her  own  hands  carefully  prepared  breakfast 
and  bore  it  to  her  mother's  bedside,  afterwards  sitting  down 
herself  to  her  silent,  solitary  meal.  Transmitting  her  mother's 
orders  to  their  servant,  and  attending  personally  to  numberless 
little  domestic  affairs,  took  up  her  attention  till  after  dinner ; 
but  then — 0 !  then,  when  Mrs.  Torrente  lay  down  for  her 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  75 

invariable  afternoon  siesta,  after  she  had  shaded  the  blinds  of  the 
bedroom  and  smoothed  her  mother's  pillow,  and  tenderly  kissed 
her  forehead,  and  left  her  to  the  slumber  she  prayed  might  bring 
her  renewed  strength,  then  Naomi,  poor  lonely  child,  began  to 
suffer.  There  was  no  need  of  being  dull,  would  she  say  to  her 
self,  not  the  least  in  the  world ;  there  was  her  piano,  she  would 
practise  ;  but  alas !  there  was  no  ear  to  listen,  no  voice  to  criti 
cise  or  encourage.  Well,  were  there  not  quantities  of  books  in 
the  back  parlor  ?  surely  there  was  a  resource.  Yes,  truly,  there 
was  for  a  time,  but  to  read  day  after  day,  without  any  one  to 
call  your  attention  to  beauties  unperceived  before,  without  any 
one  to  laugh,  or  weep,  or  appreciate  with  you,  will  it  not  at  last 
weary  ?  There  was  still  the  last  resort — to  write.  To  write  ? 
But  it  was  ever  the  same,  practising,  reading,  writing,  always, 
always  herself,  and  herself  alone,  with  her  dearth  of  reminis 
cences,  enlivened  only  by  one  treasured  flower  ;  her  ignorance 
of  life  beyond  the  cold  shadow  of  her  own  cloistering  door,  and 
her  vain  day-dreams  that  mocked  her  now  with  their  impracti 
cability.  Driven  back  perpetually  upon  herself,  her  tireless 
imagination  and  ardent  heart,  consecrated  to  nothing,  adequately 
filled  by  nothing,  devoured  themselves  and  overwhelmed  her. 
0,  in  those  many  silent,  solitary  hours,  unsympathized  with, 
since  there  was  no  one  to  whom  she  could  confide  what  she  felt, 
the  sense  of  existence  bore  upon  her  with  an  aching  weight  of 
dull  agony.  Yet  when,  just  at  nightfall,  Mrs.  Torrente  came 
into  the  parlor,  looking  refreshed  by  her  quiet  sleep,  she  always 
found  her  child  with  a  serene  brow ;  ready  with  her  tender  kiss 
and  offered  arm,  no  trace  of  the  pain  she  felt  upon  her  face, 
save  in  the  inexpressible  melancholy  of  the  deep,  dark  eyes. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  after  Mr.  Mayance  had  been  pre 
sented  at  their  house  that  Naomi,  feeling  much  in  one  of  those 
moods,  was  alone  in  the  parlor,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon.  Seated  before  a  little  table  on  which  rested  the  book  she 
had  been  trying  to  read,  her  hands  were  crossed  on  it,  and  her 
head  bowed  on  them,  when  a  sudden  ring  of  the  street-door  bell 


76  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

startled  her.  She  sat  up  quickly,  adjusted  her  slightly  disar 
ranged  hair,  just 'in  time  to  seem  to  be  composedly  reading, 
when  the  parlor  door  opened,  and  the  servant  ushered  in  Mr. 
Mayance.  At  sight  of  his  cheerful,  handsome  face,  the  air 
seemed  to  Naomi  to  lighten  and  a  weight  to  lift  from  her 
oppressed  heart.  She  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand,  and  wel 
comed  him  with  a  face  into  which  light  and  color  had  suddenly 
flashed.  Mr.  Mayance,  who  of  course  could  not  divine  the 
secret  of  her  joy,  and  never  could  for  a  moment  have  imagined 
that  she  would  have  been  equally  well  pleased  to  see  any  other 
person  possessing  in  the  same  degree  the  characteristics  of  a  gen 
tleman,  was  inexpressibly  flattered  and  elated  by  her  cordial 
reception. 

He  exerted  himself  to  entertain  her,  and  his  conversation, 
though  not  highly  intellectual,  was  sufficiently  interesting,  indi 
cating  an  intelligent  and  an  extremely  well  informed  mind. 
Naomi  could  not  be  her  truer,  innermost  self  to  him,  but  she 
felt  this  now  rather  a  relief  than  otherwise.  She  longed  for  the 
moment  to  be  matter-of-fact,  commonplace  even — anything  that 
she  was  riot.  The  absence  in  his  nature  of  everything  like 
poetic  inspiration,  or  the  inclination  to  metaphysical  self-ponder- 
ing,  seemed  to  renew  the  every-day,  cheerful,  plodding  life  which 
was,  the  little  she  had  of  it,  wearing  out  of  her  in  her  strange, 
isolated,  existence. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  a  sentiment  of  girlish  delicacy  prevented 
her  from  inviting  him  to  repeat  his  visit,  but  her  eyes  looked  the 
invitation  more  eloquently  than  her  lips  could  have  expressed 
it,  and  it  was  accepted  with  as  much  joy  as  if  it  had  been  framed 
in  words. 

He  thought  as  he  walked  pensively  away  from  her  house  how 
pretty  and  intelligent — in  one  word,  how  interesting  she  was  to 
him  in  every  way.  Above  all,  what  a  cheerful  and  happy  tem 
per  she  possessed,  and  how  well  calculated  she  was,  from  her 
modest,  retiring  nature,  to  make  an  attached  and  devoted  wife, 
especially  to  one  like  himself,  who  so  loved  a  secluded  and  tran- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A   WOMAN.  77 

quil  life.  Then  it  was  that  his  intention  of  winning  Naomi  for 
a  wife  if  possible  (and  he  did  not  doubt  this),  though  it  had 
existed  unacknowledged  from  the  first,  assumed  a  definite  form. 

She  watched  him  from  the  window  as  he  walked  away,  admir 
ing  his  fine,  manly  form  and  graceful  gait,  feeling  so  much  hap 
pier  that  she  almost  wondered  where  all  her  dark,  miserable 
thoughts  and  feelings  had  gone.  She  so  hoped  he  would  come 
often  while  he  remained  in  Washington.  Would  he  ?  Did  he 
feel  sufficient  interest  in  her  to  frequently  take  a  long  walk  to 
visit  that  little  lonely  house,  so  noiselessly  cold  and  full  of 
shadows  ? 

Thus  pondering  she  stood  for  a  long  time,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  distant,  misty  hills. 


78  NAOMI  TORKENTE: 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NAOMI  did  not  have  to  ponder  long  the  question  whether  Mr. 
Mayance  would  visit  them  or  not ;  for  every  evening  imme 
diately  after  nightfall  she  would  hear  .the  little  garden  gate 
open,  and  a  step  she  soon  learned  to  recognise  come  along 
the  gravel  walk,  ascend  the  steps  of  the  low  porch,  and  die 
away  in  the  carpeted  hall.  Then,  a  moment  after  Mr.  May- 
ance  would  stand  low-bowing  in  the  parlor  door,  bearing  in 
his  hand  almost  invariably  a  bouquet  or  a  little  basket  of 
flowers  for  Naomi. 

Spite  of  these  significant  little  attentions,  the  young  girl  was 
very  far  from  suspecting  that  Mr.  Mayance  had  for  her  any 
other  feeling  than  friendship.     In  fact,  she  never  thought  about 
it  at  all ;  and  had  he  possessed  a  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
the  perfect  unreserve  of  her  manner,  her  calm,  full,  steady  gaze, 
and  the  frank,  cordial  way  in  which  she  greeted  him,  would  have 
shown  him  at  once  what  was  the  nature  of  her  feelings  for  him. 
Poor  Mrs.  Torrente  had  never  been  more  happy.     Her  vivid 
imagination  had  again  run  away  with  her,  though  this  time  cer 
tainly  not  without  some  foundation  in  fact.    She  and  the  Colonel 
held  long  diplomatic  councils  in  which  they  discussed  the  best 
way  of  bringing  things  to  a  successful  termination.     Mrs.  Tor- 
rente  was  a  little  fearful  of  venturing  an  opinion  as  to  the  state 
of  Naomi's  affections,  having  been  so  much  deceived  in  the  case 
of  Mr.  Fairford ;   but  the  Colonel  unqualifiedly  declared  that 
he  knew  as  well  as  he  could  know  anything  that  Mr.  Mayance's 
feelings  for  Naomi  were  fully  reciprocated.     Things,  he  said, 
would  not  go  on  much  longer  in  this  way.     There  would  be  a 
declaration  from  the  gentleman,  and  he  advised  Mrs.  Torrente 
to  sound  Naomi  on  the  subject. 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  79 

It  was  one  night  on  going  to  bed  that  the  mother  rather  ner 
vously  acted  on  this  suggestion.  She  herself  was  already  in 
bed,  and  Naomi  half  undressed,  looking  like  a  "  summer  moon 
half  dipped  in  cloud,"  stood  leaning  on  the  foot- board. 

"Naomi,  dear,"  the  mother  said,  attentively  observing  the 
young  girl's  face  in  obedience  to  the  Colonel's  advice,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  our  friend  ?" 

Naomi  opened  her  large  eyes,  with  a  slight  expression  of 
wonder  in  her  ingenuous  face,  and  answered : 

"How,  mamma?     Why?" 

"  How  ?  Why,  what  do  you  think  of  him  personally  ?  and 
what  do  you  think  of  him  as  regards  ourselves  ?" 

"  0 !  I  think  he  is  very  gentlemanly  and  extremely  kind  and 
amiable,  and  I  think  he  has  a  true,  warm  friendship  for  us,  for 
which  I  am  very  glad,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  have  friends." 

Look  as  intently  as  she  might,  Mrs.  Torrente  could  detect  not 
the  least  trembling  in  the  eyelid,  not  the  faintest  variation  in  the 
color  of  the  young  girl's  cheek  ;  her  tone  and  manner  were  as 
frank,  cheerful,  and  natural  as  possible. 

Mrs.  Torrente  sat  up  in  bed  and  motioned  Naomi  to  her  side. 

"  Sit  down  here,  dear.  Now  listen  to  me  attentively.  You 
know  I  have  never  treated  you  with  the  usual  authority  of  a 
parent.  You  have  always  been  to  me  more  like  a  friend  and 
companion.  You  have  a  great  deal  of  sense,  a  great  deal  of 
judgment;  but  still,  like  all  young  girls,  you  are  a  little  way 
ward  about  some  things.  Now  then,  listen.  Mr.  Mayance 
loves  you,  and  I  am  sure  he  intends  asking  you  to  be  his  wife ; 
and  when  he  speaks  first  to  you  about  the  matter,  you  must  be 
very  careful  how  you  act.  He  is  not  a  bold,  presuming  man 
like  Mr.  Fairford,  and  needs  to  be  encouraged.  I  tell  you  this 
so  that  you  may  not  get  frightened  and  run  away,  as  girls  are 
apt  to  do;  because  at  first  you  never  know  your  own  minds, 
and  do  not  understand  the  nature  of  your  own  feelings.  I  do 
not  believe  there  is  any  one  in  the  world,  Naomi,  to  whom  I 
would  so  joyfully  see  you  married  as  to  Mr.  Mayance.  He  has 


80  NAOMI  TOEEENTE: 

an  excellent  position  as  a  lawyer,  a  fair  income,  and,  besides  all 
his  admirable  qualities,  he  is  of  an  age  to  make  a  devoted  hus 
band.  I  have  been  so  Believed  lately,  seeing  your  future  so 
securely  and  happily  provided  for.  0  !  it  is  such  a  consolation 
to  me,  for  I  know  you  will  be  happy ;  for  if  you  are  happy  now 
in  his  society,  how  much  more  so  will  you  be  when  he  can 
devote  all  his  time  and  attention  to  you." 

Through  all  this  long  harangue  Naomi  sat  in  stupified  silence, 
gazing  steadily  at  her  mother,  who  had  watched  her  child  paling 
and  felt  her  hands  growing  cold  as  ice  within  her  own.  She 
waited  to  be  quite  sure  that  the  speech  was  indeed  terminated, 
and  then  she  spoke  slowly,  with  an  undertone  of  deepest  melan 
choly  in  her  grave  voice  : 

"  I  do  not  want  to  marry,  mamma ;  you  know  I  do  not  want 
to  marry." 

"  It  is  nonsense,  perfect  nonsense,  Naomi,  to  talk  that  way ; 
nothing  but  a  child's  foolish  whim,  when  you  know  how  indis 
pensable  it  is  for  you  to  marry,  and  have  an  excellent  opportu 
nity  of  doing  so.  Now  go  to  bed,  and  unless  you  wish  to 
seriously  offend  me,  be  more  reasonable." 

With  a  movement  of  irritation  rare  in  her  she  turned  her 
back  upon  the  young  girl,  and  composed  herself  to  sleep. 

Mechanically  Naomi  finished  undressing,  arranged  her  hair 
for  the  night,  then  laid  herself  down  in  the  little  cot  opposite  to 
her  mother's  bed.  But  to  sleep  was  utterly  impossible  with  the 
inward  emotion  that  agitated  her.  She  sat  up  and,  convinced 
that  her  mother  slept  soundly,  bowed  her  head  upon  her  hands, 
and  surrendered  herself  to  her  reflections. 

How  was  this  ?  Mr.  Mayance,  who  had  whiled  away  so  many 
weary  hours  for  her,  whom  she  had  regarded  with  such  kindly, 
such  almost  affectionate  feelings,  was  it  possible  that  in  one 
moment  he  had  become  an  object  of  repugnance  and  dread  to 
her  ?  What  was  this  within  her  that  so  revolted,  not  with  the 
feelings  of  loathing  she  had  for  her  first  suitor,  but  with  such 
utter  disinclination  and  dissatisfaction  at  the  bare  thought  of 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  81 

love  relations  with  him  ?  But  was  her  mother  right  ?  Did  he 
love  her  ?  What  kind  of  love  was  this  that  could  so  tamely 
bear  the  bonds  of  restraint  for  weeks,  and  never  for  one  single 
instant  break  away  ?  She  understood  his  character  perfectly, 
and  though  it  was  not  congenial  with  her  own,  yet  she  had  ever 
liked  him  as  he  was ;  but  he  did  not,  she  knew  it — felt  it — com 
prehend  her  true  character  in  the  least.  How,  then,  could  he 
love  her  ?  She  pondered  thus  with  a  strange  feeling  of  bondage 
on  her  which  she  strove  to  shake  off.  She  was  free.  She  could 
and  she  would,  too,  put  an  end  to  everything  at  the  first  defi 
nite  sign  of  its  existence.  With  this  determination  broadly  and 
strongly  defined  she  lay  down,  tranquillized  herself  with  an 
effort,  and  fell  asleep. 


82  NAOMI  TOBRENTE- 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

DURING  the  next  day  no  reference  was  made  by  either  mother 
or  daughter  to  the  conversation  of  the  preceding  night.  Mrs. 
Torrente  took  it  for  granted  that  Naomi  had  only  talked  as 
young  girls  do,  and  had  thought  better  of  her  folly. 

Half  an  hour  before  sunset,  rather  earlier  than  usual,  Mr. 
Mayance  came.  He  found  Mrs.  Torrente  alone  in  the  parlor, 
and  sat  in  silence  for  several  moments,  seemingly  preoccupied 
and  somewhat  disturbed.  At  last  he  said :  "  Mrs.  Torrente, 
would  you  object  to  your  daughter  taking  a  walk  with  me 
this  evening?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  responded  Mrs.  Torrente,  animatedly. 
"  I  think  she  will  be  much  pleased  to  do  so.  There  she  is." 

Naomi  entered.  She  wore  a  dress  of  blue  and  brown  barege, 
and  the  rather  sombre  colors  added  to  the  air  of  cold  gravity 
that  seemed  to  surround  her  like  a  new  atmosphere.  She 
bowed,  and  drawing  near  the  little  white  marble  centre-table, 
stood  folding  and  unfolding  a  piece  of  blank  paper.  Uncon 
sciously  to  herself  her  manner  and  the  expression  of  her  face 
were  so  repellant  that  Mr.  Mayance,  somewhat  timid  and  more 
than  usually  sensitive,  hesitated  for  some  minutes  to  name 
the  proposed  walk ;  but  finally  recollecting  that  Miss  Torrente 
would  not  know  how  to  understand  his  silence,  he  spoke  with 
an  effort: 

"Miss  Naomi,  it  is  a  lovely  evening.  It  will  be  daylight 
for  half  an  hour  yet,  and  after  that  there  will  be  a  beautiful 
moon.  Will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  accept  my  escort  for 
a  short  walk  ?" 

Aided  by  her  mother's  suggestions  of  the  night  previous, 
it  was  easy  for  Naomi  to  divine  the  object  he  had  in  view 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  83 

in  this  proposition.  Again  that  feeling  of  repugnance  and 
dread  went  over  her  like  a  chill.  She  answered  in  a  con 
strained  and  measured  voice: 

"I  am  not  feeling  well  to-day,  Mr.  Mayance,  and  am  not 
equal  to  the  exertion  of  a  walk." 

In  vain  Mrs.  Torrente  looked  reproach,  expostulation,  en 
treaty,  Naomi's  eyes  obstinately  refused  to  meet  hers.  Irritated 
out  of  her  usual  prudence  and  calmness,  she  said  almost 
sharply : 

"A  walk  will  do  you  good.  I  wish  you  to  go.  Why 
should  you  refuse?" 

Barely,  very  rarely  was  Naomi  ever  disrespectful  to  her 
mother. 

To  her  deep  filial  reverence  was  added  the  highest  respect 
for  the  truth,  purity,  and  goodness  of  her  mother's  nature, 
and  a  deep,  abiding  tenderness  rooted  in  her  very  being.  But 
when  touched  on  particular  points,  then,  and  only  then,  Naomi 
was  passionate  and  violent.  Unfortunately,  with  her  unguarded 
remark  the  mother  had  wounded  her  where  she  was  most  sen 
sitive.  She  looked  up  for  a  moment,  a  bright  spot  of  red 
burning  on  either  cheek,  and  replied  almost  haughtily  : 

" I  do  not  go,  because  / do  not  wish" 

Mr.  Mayance  sat  for  a  moment  quite  pale  with  suppressed 
feeling;  then  he  rose,  took  his  hat,  and  approaching  Mrs. 
Torrente,  said : 

"  You  have  treated  me,  madame,  with  unvarying  kindness 
and  generous  hospitality ;  accept  my  thanks,  and  allow  me  to 
say  good-bye."  Then,  turning  away,  he  bowed  profoundly  to 
Naomi,  and  quitted  the  room  and  the  house. 

When  the  last  echo  of  his  footsteps  had  died  away,  Mrs.  Tor- 
rente  bowed  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  wept  with  deep,  quiet 
sorrow.  The  evil  feeling  was  still  upon  Naomi,  and  she  resisted 
as  long  as  possible  the  influence  that  drew  her  to  her  mother's 
side ;  but  it  conquered  at  last.  She  approached  and  knelt  beside 
her. 


84  NAOMI  TOERENTE  : 

"  Dear  mother,  forgive  me  for  speaking  so  rudely  to  you  !  I 
am  very  sorry.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  O !"  the  mother  said  through  her  sobs,  "  poor  wayward 
child,  that  will  persist  in  refusing  protection  and  happiness,  so 
that  some  day,  perhaps  ere  long,  she  will  be  left  homeless,  shel 
terless,  friendless — alone,  my  God !  in  this  desolate  world." 

"  At  least  then  do  not  cast  me  out  from  the  shelter  of  your 
love  while  yet  it  is  mine !"  murmured  the  tender  voice  at  her 
feet;  and  quite  unable  to  resist  this  appeal,  she  opened  her 
arms,  and  the  lovely  drooping  head  was  pillowed  on  its  surest, 
safest  rest — a  mother's  loving,  unselfish  heart. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  85 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

FOB  two  or  three  days  Naomi  only  thought  of  Mr.  Mayance 
with  a  sense  of  relief  and  release ;  but  gradually,  against  her 
will,  she  began  to  miss  him.  In  the  evening  she  often  found 
herself  looking  at  his  accustomed  seat,  and  unconsciously  won 
dering  why  she  did  not  hear  the  accustomed  step  upon  the 
gravel  walk.  Sitting  by  the  open  window,  the  room  lighted 
often  only  by  the  moonbeams,  her  mother  in  her  arm-chair  or 
on  her  couch,  she  would  fancy  him  standing  beside  her,  her 
hand  in  his,  perchance  his  arm  about  her,  fancy  herself  his — 
yes,  really  his  wife ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  something  of  the 
first  intensity  of  her  feeling  of  repugnance  had  worn  away. 
Then  some  trifling  thing,  some  little  movement  of  her  own,  some 
passing  breeze  fanning  her  cheek  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  it 
had  done  at  that  time,  recalled  with  that  mysterious  power  of 
association  the  Fairford  episode,  bringing  back  for  one  moment 
the  glorious  light  that  had  flooded  life  for  a  few  brief  days ;  and 
then,  from  out  the  shadow  of  the  past,  receding  further  and 
further  every  day,  would  come  the  memory  of  what  might  have 
been,  had  her  first  abortive  bud  of  love  ripened  in  the  sunlight 
of  reciprocity.  With  a  sigh  would  she  bid  these  memories  float 
once  more  into  darkness,  and  her  imagination,  plunging  into  the 
future,  craved  with  the  fervent  impatience  of  youth  a  completed 
life — something  that  in  looking  back  upon  it  might  enable  her 
to  say,  "at  least  I  have  lived."  ... 

But  these  were  dreams  invoked  by  night  and  solitude  ;  day 
brought  her  back  to  realities.  Every  hour  increased  her  feeling 
of  regret  for  the  loss  of  Mr.  Mayance.  O !  she  did  so  wish 
things  might  have  continued  as  they  were  interminably. 


86  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

About  ten  days  had  passed  when  the  Colonel,  whom  they  had 
not  seen  since  the  evening  of  Mr.  Mayance's  last  visit,  entered 
quite  unexpectedly.  He  looked  worried  and  vexed,  and  had  to 
impose  upon  himself  a  great  deal  of  self-restraint  to  control  his 
natural  brusqueness  enough  to  say  to  Naomi  in  rather  a  surly 
way :  "  Good  evening,  child." 

"  What  is  the  news,  Colonel  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Torrente. 

"  0 !  well,  nothing  particular.  Mr.  Mayance  is  going  home 
to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Torrente  looked  pained  but  resigned,  and  said  nothing. 
The  Colonel  glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  Naomi. 
She  was  sitting  quietly  underneath  the  candelabra,  and  he  could 
plainly  see  the  disturbed,  undecided,  wistful  expression  of  her 
face.  Pretending  to  be  entirely  unobservant  of  her,  he  turned 
and  commenced  chatting  with  Mrs.  Torrente.  After  a  moment 
Naomi  rose,  went  to  the  little  table  where  her  writing-desk 
stood,  opened  it,  sat  down  and  wrote  steadily  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  she  folded,  sealed,  and  directed  her  note,  and  walked  over 
to  the  Colonel  with  that  same  steady  air,  though  her  cheeks 
were  slightly  flushed  and  the  hand  that  held  the  letter  trembled 
little. 

"  Colonel,  will  you  please  to  hand  this  to  Mr.  Mayance,  if  it 
be  not  too  much  trouble  ?" 

Mrs.  Torrente's  heart  was  in  her  throat,  and  the  Colonel  after 
wards  declared  that  he  could  have  turned  a  somerset  for  joy ; 
yet  both  had  diplomacy  enough  (Mrs.  Torrente  owed  it  to  the 
quiet  but  tremendous  pressure  of  the  Colonel's  boot  upon  her 
left  foot)  to  retain  their  gravity,  and  express  neither  surprise  nor 
pleasure  at  this  entirely  unexpected  occurrence. 

Spite  of  himself,  however,  he  was  in  great  haste  to  be  gone, 
and  His  face  as  he  said  good  night  expanded  into  a  broad  grin. 
His  "  Good  night,  child,"  was  as  hearty  and  cordial  as  his  first 
salutation  had  been  cold  and  forced. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  87 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.  MAYANCE  was  alone  in  his  room,  completing  his  prepara 
tions  for  the  journey  of  the  following  day.  Turning  over  one 
of  his  drawers,  he  came  suddenly  on  one  of  Naomi's  little 
gloves,  which  he  had  found  one  day  and  taken  possession  of. 
He  thought  that  he  had  mastered  all  feeling  for  her,,  yet  the 
sight  of  this  gave  him  a  pang.  He  stood  with  it  in  his  hand  for 
a  long  time,  observing  with  admiration  how  exactly  it  had  taken 
the  form  of  her  pretty  little  hand.  It  was  very  natural  to  pass 
from  the  thought  of  the  hand  to  the  arm,  from  the  arm  to  the 
neck,  and  then  the  face  smiled — the  figure  breathed  before  him. 
He  was  not  much  given  to  analyse  other  people's  feelings  or  his 
own,  thus  he  had  never  exactly  understood  the  real  nature  of 
his  sentiments  for  Naomi,  or  to  what  extent  his  heart  was  inte 
rested.  Certainly  her  beauty  had  inspired  him  with  a  passion, 
and,  besides  this,  up  to  the  evening  of  their  last  interview,  he 
had  always  admired  what  he  conceived  to  be  her  character. 
Perhaps  the  kind  of  placidity  in  his  nature  opposed  and  pre 
vented  any  great  depth  of  feeling ;  at  any  rate,  a  few  days  had 
apparently  sufficed  to  reconcile  him  to  the  existing  state  of 
affairs. 

There  was  a  subdued  tap  at  his  door,  and  in  obedience  to  his 
"  come  in,"  the  door  opened  and  the  Colonel  entered.  His  face, 
in  the  effort  to  preserve  its  gravity,  was  far  graver  than  usual, 
but  there  was  a  merry  twinkle  in  the  eye,  and  the  corners  of  the 
mouth  would  arch  a  little. 

"  Good  evening,  Colonel.  Take  a  seat.  I  am  busy,  you  see. 
You  will  excuse  my  going  on  with  my  packing  ?" 

"Of  course.  Saw  Mrs.  Torrente  this  evening.  Sent  her 
kindest  regards  and  best  wishes." 


88  NAOM^  TORRENTE: 

Mr.  Mayance  bowed,  and  turning  round  to  his  trunk,  the 
Colonel  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  place  Naomi's 
note  upon  the  bureau,  and  when  Mr.  Mayance  again  approached 
it,  it  was  the  first  thing  that  caught  his  eye. 

"  Ha !"  he  exclaimed,  "  what's  this  ?" 

"  Open  it  and  see,"  cried  the  Colonel,  giving  vent  to  himself 
now  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  So  you  see  we  have  brought  our  little  Captain-General  to 
terms." 

Mr.  Mayance,  with  an  eagerness  he  did  not  attempt  to  hide, 
tore  open  the  note  and  read  the  following  lines  : — 

DEAR  MR.  MAYANCE  : —  •  . 

You  will  not  go  away  without  coming  to  say  good-bye  to 
us.  You  know  how  highly  we  regard  and  esteem  you.  You 
will  not  let  a  foolish  caprice  destroy  all  memory  of  past  friendly 
days.  Come !  and  let  us  say  adieu  as  friends  should — with  a 
long,  cordial  clasp  of  hands. 

Truly  your  friend, 

NAOMI  TORRENTE. 

August  30,  18—. 

The  Colonel  watched  him  as  he  read  it,  and  saw  his  color  vary 
and  a  look  of  indecision  flit  over  his  face. 

"  Having  been  bearer  of  dispatches,  may  I  not  be  allowed  to 
know  what  their  nature  is  ?"  inquired  he. 

"  Simply  a  request  for  me  to  call  and  take  leave,"  answered 
Mr.  Mayance,  handing  him  the  note. 

"  You  will  go,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes,  though  to  do  so  I  shall  have  to  stay  over  till  day  after 
to-morrow.  No ;  I  will  go  and  see  them  in  the  morning,  and 
take  the  afternoon  train." 

The  Colonel  acquiesced,  inwardly  greatly  amused  at  the  idea 
of  Mr.  Mayance  still  believing  that  the  contemplated  journey 
would  be  verified  as  proposed.  Shortly  afterwards  he  bade  Mr. 
Mayance  good  night. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  89 

Mr.  Ifayance .  tossed  upon  his  bed  two  or  three  hours  ere  he 
could  sleep  ;  and  had  not  the  fatigues  of  the  day  accounted  to 
him  very  satisfactorily  for  this  restlessness,  he  might  not  unrea 
sonably  have  supposed  that  Naomi  had  a  much  stronger  hold 
upon  him  than  he  had  been  willing  to  acknowledge  to  himself. 


90  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

THE  morning  is  warm  and  dusty.  The  flowers  of  the  little 
garden  of  that  one  particular  house  on  the  White  House  hill 
seem  to  be  languishing  for  want  of  water.  Mr.  Mayance  thinks 
this  as  he  walks  up  the  gravel  walk  he  had  never  thought  to 
tread  again.  The  front  door  is  closed,  and  so  are  the  parlor 
window-blinds,  rather  uninvitingly.  He  rings.  The  servant 
girl  opens,  and  ushers  him  into  the  parlor.  Coming  in  here 
from  the.  blinding  glare  of  the  sun,  he  cannot  at  first  see  where 
to  sit  down.  He  finds  a  seat,  after  a  moment  has  accustomed 
his  eyes  to  the  semi-obscurity,  on  the  sofa,  and  sits  listening  to 
the  quick  beating  of  his  own  heart.  He  has  intended  that  his 
manner  shall  be  calm,  dignified,  and  somewhat  distant ;  now  he 
feels  with  annoyance  that  this  impertinently  beating  heart  is 
going  to  destroy  all  his  plans.  Presently  he  hears  the  sound  of 
a  lightly  swaying  robe,  and  Naomi  enters.  She  wears  a  simple 
white  morning  dress,  long  and  flowing,  girded  with  a  ribbon  at 
the  waist.  She  comes  forward  holding  out  her  hand,  a  smile 
parting  her  lips,  and  says  in  a  voice  kind,  yet  not  altogether 
natural : 

"  Mr.  Mayance  I  I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  see  you  again." 
Then  she  draws  an  arm-chair  a  little  nearer  and  sits  down, 
and  he  resumes  his  seat  upon  the  sofa.  What  he  has  answered 
has  been  said  in  so  low  a  voice  that  she  has  not  heard  it  at  all. 
He  observes  now  that  the  morning  is  extremely  warm,  she 
assents,  and  then  there  is  an  embarrassed  pause.  He  breaks  it 
at  last  in  a  voice  a  little  firmer,  but  still  so  wavering  as  to  be 
sometimes  inaudible. 

* 

"  Miss  Naomi,  I  have  come  to  bid  you  good-bye,  in  obedience 
to  your  request.     You  say  in  your  note  that  you  hope  a  caprice 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  91 

may  not  destroy  all  memory  of  past  friendly  feelings.  "Was  it 
a  caprice  then  that  induced  you  to  treat  me  so  slightingly  the 
last  evening  I  was  here  ?" 

Silence,  and  after  waiting  a  moment  he  continues : 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  there  could  have  been  anything 
in  my  simple  invitation  to  walk  that  ought  to  have  offended 
you.  I  thought  we  had  known  each  other  long  enough,  and 
liked  each  other  well  enough  (I  do  not  mean  to  speak  presump 
tuously)  to  make  a  desire  to  be  alone  sometimes  perfectly  natural 
and  proper." 

Again  that  shrinking  repugnance  falls  coldly  over  her,  but  the 
room  is  too  dark  for  him  to  notice  the  sudden  contraction  of  her 
features,  and  she  is  silent  still.  He  goes  on : 

"  I  have  attributed  your  conduct  on  that  occasion  to  a  wish  on 
your  part  to  discourage  at  once  and  decidedly  any  hope  in  me 
of  ever  being  to  you  anything  more  than  a  very  distant  friend. 
Was  I  right  in  thinking  this?" 

What!  not  one  word  to  speak,  Naomi,  sitting  there  with 
bowed  head  and  clasped  hands,  mute  and  cold  as  a  statue  ? 

He  waits  for  an  answer.  None  comes,  and,  mystified  and 
pained  by  this  silence,  he  says : 

"  Tell  me  something.  Do  not  leave  me  in  this  suspense. 
Tell  me,  may  I  hope  that  you  can  ever  be  anything  more  to  me 
than  what  you  have  been  ?" 

"  You  may."  The  words  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  motion 
less  figure  as  coldly  as  pieces  of  ice,  and  all  the  pulses  of  her 
being  are  so  stilled  that  they  seem  to  her  to  have  ceased  to 
beat, 

Has  she  chilled  him  with  the  contagion  of  her  coldness,  that 
he  sits  as  unimpassioned  as  though  he  had  not  understood  the 
purport  of  her  words  ?  Truly,  it  was  easier  for  the  artist  lover 
to  warm  into  life  his  marble  love  than  for  passion  to  burst  into 
a  flame  in  this  icy  atmosphere.  But  Mr.  Mayance,  lawyer  as  he 
is,  is  not  gifted  with  great  penetration,  and  he  says  to  himself 
that  it  is  timidity  that  thus  constrains  Naomi.  Striving  to 


92  NAOMI  TOERENTE  : 

overcome  this  magnetic  repulsion,  he  softly  steals  one  of  the 
little  hands  lying  so  listlessly  in  her  lap,  and  says  gently : 

"  You  have  never  been  afraid  of  me,  Naomi,  why  should  you 
so  shrink  now  ?  I  love  you.  .  There  is  nothing  unmaidenly  in 
your  being  fully,  freely  frank  with  me.  You  have  told  me  that 
I  may  hope.  Tell  me  so  again  in  a  little  kinder,  a  little  warmer 
tone,  that  I  may  believe  you  feel  what  you  say." 

The  slight  shiver  that  ran  over  her  at  the  first  contact  of  his 
hand  is  gone  now.  She  constrains  her  uneasy  and.  unwilling 
hand  to  lie  patiently  in  his,  struggling  with  a  nervous  fear  that 
his  arm  may  encircle  her.  She  conquers  it,  raises  her  head,  and 
says  steadily,  in  a  tone  she  tries  to  render  kind  and  genial  : 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  frank,  Mr.  Mayance.  You  know  that  our 
acquaintance  has  been  very  short,  and  we  know  little  of  each 
other's .  character  or  feelings.  When  we  be  better  acquainted, 
then  I  can  speak  definitively.  At  present,  all  I  can  say  is — you 
may  hope." 

Mr.  Mayance  thinks  again  that  this  is  only  girlish  coyness, 
and  is  fully  persuaded  that  behind  all  this  repression  (for  so  he 
deems  it)  she  conceals  just  as  much  love  for  him  as  he  has  for 
her.  "Well  pleased  at  having  accomplished  infinitely  more  than 
he  had  hoped  to  since  their  altercation,  he  concludes  that  the 
wisest  plan  (and  under  the  real  circumstances  it  was  undoubtedly 
so)  is  not  to  alarm  her  sensitive  modesty  with  demonstrations  of 
affection.  He  holds  her  hand  still,  but  it  is  with  all  the  playful 
gentleness  of  a  brother,  and  says  smilingly : 

"  I  am  content,  dear  Naomi,  and  submit  to  your  will.  Ac 
cording  to  this  arrangement  I  am  not  to  return  home  immedi 
ately?" 

Perhaps  she  divines  these  last  thoughts,  perhaps  she  feels 
them ;  at  any  rate  a  change  comes  over  her,  something  of  life 
and  animation  comes  back  to  her  face  and  into  her  manner. 
She  smiles  and  reaches  her  other  hand  to  him  : 

"  0 !  no !  no  1"  she  says,  "  stay  and  come  and  see  us  just  as 
you  used  to." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  93 

"  But  you  will  not,  just  as  you  used  to,  refuse  to  walk  with 
me?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"Well,  then,"  he  says,  rising,  "as  this  is  something  of  a 
change  in  my  plan  of  operations,  I  must  leave  you  for  the  pre 
sent.  Till  this  evening,  au  revoir." 

He  still  holds  her  hands,  but  without  even  kissing  them,  with 
only  a  warm,  tender  pressure.  So  he  leaves  her. 

It  is  such  an  unspeakable  relief  to  be  alone,  that  when  the 
door  closes  after  him  she  sinks  down  in  her  arm-chair,  and  so 
remains  for  several  minutes,  quite  unequal  to  the  exertion  of 
going  up  stairs.  She  rouses  at  last,  and  slowly,  weariedly 
mounts.  At  sight  of  her  her  mother  cries  out : 

"  Why,  Naomi,  what  is  the  matter  ?  You  are  as  white  as  a 
corpse !" 

And  Naomi,  walking  to  the  mirror,  is  almost  startled  by  the 
blanched  face  that  looks  out  upon  her.  She  leans  her  elbows 
on  the  bureau,  and  says,  still  contemplating  herself : 

"  Mr.  Mayance  will  not  go  home  as  he  intended." 

There  is  a  startled,  hoping,  doubting  look  in  the  mother's 
face.  She  crosses  the  room  to  where  Naomi  stands,  and,  grasp 
ing  her  arm,  says  eagerly : 

"  Does  he  stay  because  you  have  given  heed  to  your  mother's 
counsel,  Naomi?" 

The  young  girl  bows  her  head,  and  Mrs.  Torrente,  in  a  trans 
port  of  happiness,  clasps  her  in  her  arms.  But,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Naomi  is  cold  to  her  mother's  caress,  and  scarce 
ly  feels  the  kiss  upon  her  cheek. 


94  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THERE  was  a  great  deal  of  wondering  among  Mr.  Mayance's 
relatives  and  friends  as  to  what  had  thus  suddenly  induced  him 
to  change  his  resolution  of  going  home.  But  the  person  who 
wondered  with  the  most  interest  was  the  cousin  he  had  spoken 
of  to  the  Colonel,  who,  having  lived  in  the  same  house  with 
him  for  some  months  on  the  terms  of  intimacy  authorized  by 
their  relationship,  had  a  great  fancy  for  him,  and  perhaps  had 
in  fact  as  much  real  feeling  for  him  as  the  lightness  of  her  nature 
would  permit  her  to  have"  for  any  one.  She  was  not,  as  he 
said,  beautiful,  but  a  very  pretty  girl.  Fair  and  aerial  in  form, 
with  light  hair,  large  brown  eyes,  and  features  just  irregular 
enough  to  be  piquant  and  harmonize  well  with  her  sprightly 
character,  Mr.  Mayance  liked  her ;  his  vanity  was  flattered  by 
her  evident  preference,  and  a  flirtation  which  could  be  carried 
on  with  so  little  exertion  or  trouble  on  his  part,  was  a  very 
agreeable  thing,  and  did  not  interfere  in  the  least  (as  he  thought) 
with  his  more  serious  feeling  for  Naomi.  Indeed,  so  far  from 
interfering,  he  soon  found  that,  managed  with  tact  and  skill,  it 
was  a  great  weapon  with  which  to  combat  Naomi's  coldness. 
He  commenced  by  carelessly  speaking  of  her  one  day,  saying 
that  she  was  his  cousin,  young,  pretty,  and  then,  with  some 
little  lawyer-like  traits  of  expression,  gave  Naomi  to  under 
stand  as  it  were  quite  inadvertently  the  high  esteem  in  which 
he  was  held  by  her.  He  was  not  discouraged  to  see  that 
the  remark  had  no  more  effect  on  his  listener  than  if  he  had 
told  her  that  Miss  Clara  Sordham  was  the  Colonel's  friend 
and  cousin  instead  of  his.  He  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
bringing  her  name  into  the  conversation,  and  always  in  some 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  95 

connection  very  flattering  to  her.  For  instance,  Naomi  hap 
pened  to  be  looking  very  pretty,  her  dress  was  sure  to  remind 
him  of  some  very  beautiful,  very  becoming,  but  yet  very  differ 
ent  dress  of  Miss  Clara ;  and  he  would  advise  Naomi  to  wear 
her  hair  in  such  or  such  a  style,  as  Miss  Clara  did.  Naomi's 
indifference  was  at  first  so  genuine  that  all  this  manoeuvring 
produced  no  effect  whatever ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  at 
last  this  constant  mention  of  another  in  a  way  which  indirectly 
indicated  that  she  was  held  as  her  superior  became  exceedingly 
annoying,  though  pride  would  not  allow  her  to  permit  the  slight 
est  indication  of  such  a  feeling  to  be  perceived.  And  yet,  why, 
looking  at  it  in  a  reasonable  way,  should  she  care  ?  She  had 
only  friendship  and  esteem  for  Mr.  Mayance,  and  if  he  thought 
another  prettier,  more  engaging  than  she,  why  should  it  trouble 
her  ?  It  was  only  wounded  self-love ;  still,  if  it  had  been  Colo 
nel  Familiar's  opinion  instead  of  Mr.  Mayance's,  she  would 
never  have  given  it  a  thought. 

All  this  while  she  had  been  gradually  growing  used  to  con 
sidering  him  her  suitor,  and  acccustoming  herself  to  the  idea  of 
the  possibility  of  one  day  becoming  his  wife.  Either  from  habit 
or  from  the  development  of  some  new  feeling  for  him,  her  re 
pugnance  had  insensibly  worn  away.  She  felt  an  augmented 
though  still  a  quiet  pleasure  at  sight  of  him,  and  an  increased 
void  in  his  absence.  Lastly,  without  acknowledging  it  to  her 
self,  she  began  to  wonder  with  a  little  sense  of  wounded  pride 
why  he,  occupying  the  position  of  a  declared  and  half-accepted 
lover,  was  in  all  save  words  and  looks  as  cold  as  a  distant  freind. 
This  was  exactly  the  point  to  which,  with  rare  patience  and  per 
severance,  he  had  struggled  to  bring  her,  and  to  which  end  he 
had  with  nice  discernment  combined  the  most  efficient  means. 

They  were  alone  one  evening,  Mrs.  Torrente  having  early 
stolen  off  to  bed.  Naomi  had  been  playing,  and  was  sitting 
silently  now,  with  her  fingers  on  the  keys,  when,  for  the  first 
time,  his  arm  ventured  to  glide  softly  round  her  waist,  and  look 
ing  tenderly  at  her,  he  said : 


96  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  Naomi,  I  want  what  I  have  never  had  from  you,  a  kiss." 

Altogether  taken  by  surprise,  she  started,  glowed  with  sudden 
shame,  and  shrank  back,  saying  hurriedly  : 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !" 

""Why,  surely,"  he  said  laughing,  "you  might  grant  with 
propriety,  what  Clara,  to  whom  I  am  nothing,  does  not  hesitate 
to  yield  me." 

Clara  again  ?  The  name  stung  her  sharply.  She  struggled 
to  conceal  her  anger,  but  it  was  at  last  too  strong  for  her. 

"  I  do  not  care  what  your  cousin  Clara  does,"  she  said  with  a 
brighter  crimson  on  her  cheek,  and  pouting  her  disdainful  lip. 
"  And  after  you  telling  me  that,  I  certainly  should  not  give  you 
a  kiss,  even  if  I  wanted  to." 

"But,  if  I  promise  not  to  kiss  her  again,  Naomi?" 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me  how  often  you  kiss  her— only'Y/"  you  do 
kiss  HER,  of  course,  you  cannot  kiss  ME." 

^,'ilwill  not  again — and  you  will  give  me  one — only  one?" 
ati®  this  time  it  w&s  granted  after  a  little  resistance. 

'"Six 'weeks  after  their  reconciliation,  Mr.  Mayance  told 
Naomi  one  evening  that  business  imperatively  demanded  that 
he  should  go  home  for  a  few  days,  it  might  not  -be  for  more 
*ian  three  days— possibly  it  might  be  a  week-^-xjertainly  not 
more.  He  should  write  on  his  arrival,  and  expect>&n  immediate 
answer. 

"  And  now,  Naomi,"  he  said,  "  don't  let  me  go -away  leaving 
things  in  such  an  indefinite  way  as  this.  Have  ytfii  not  known 
me  long  enough  now,  to  be  able  to  settle  things  determinately  ? 
I  know  all  I  care  to  know  of  you ;  I  love  you,  and  I  wish  to 
know  if  you  are  ever  to  be  mine." 

Naomi's  face  was  all  shadows. 

"What  need  to  speak  of  that  now?"  she  said  reluc 
tantly.  "  Are  we  not  very  happy  as  we  are  ?  Why  wish  to 
change  ?" 

"  Why,  what  a  child  you  are  sometimes !  Do  you  think 
matters  can  continue  so  for  ever?" 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.    '  97 

"  Well !  don't  ask  me  anything  about  it  now.  When  you 
come  back  I  will  tell  you." 

He  bade  her  adieu,  calm  and  smiling,  but  she  without  know 
ing  why  felt  her  eyes  fill  with  tears,  as  standing  on  the  little 
porch  she  watched  him  disappear  into  the  darkness. 

7 


98  NAOMI  TOKRENTE. 


CHAPTEE  XXni. 

IT  was  the  third  night  after  Mr.  Mayance's  departure  that  Naomi, 
having  gone  to  bed  early,  at  the  same  time  as  her  mother,  to 
avoid  the  long,  lonely  evening,  found  it  impossible  to  sleep.  In 
vain  she  turned  from  side  to  side,  in  vain  labored  to  concentrate 
the  maze  of  thoughts  that  bewildered  her,  nothing  would  do ; 
rest  was  just  as  impossible  as  sleep ;  and  rising  softly,  not  to 
disturb  her  mother,  she  threw  a  shawl  around  her  and  sat  down 
by  the  window  most  distant  from  the  beds,  throwing  it  open  as 
she  did  so. 

It  was  an  October  night,  warm,  hazy,  and  lighted  by  a  glo 
rious  autumnal  moon,  reflecting  its  rays  on  the  trembling  waters 
of  the  Potomac,  and  touching  the  sleeping  city  with  cold,  mys 
tic  lights  that  deepened  to  a  midnight  blackness  the  shadows 
where  they  fell. 

There,  leaning  her  arms  upon  the  window-sill,  and  resting  her 
head  upon  them,  she  let  the  storm  within  her  have  its  way  and 
whirl  her  where  it  would. 

Slowly,  unwillingly,  during  the  last  two  'days,  a  revolution 
had  been  taking  place  in  her — a  revolution  against  which  she 
battled  bravely,  but  without  success.  Old  feelings  had  again 
come  up  with  more  than  original  strength.  Not  that  she  had 
even  for  one  moment  ceased  to  think  of  Mr.  Mayance  kindly — 
ay — affectionately ;  but  there  again,  ignoring  all  changed  senti 
ments,  and  obstinately  resisting  all  reason,  was  that  mortal  shrink 
ing  from  all  love  demonstrations  from  such  source.  She  thought 
of  his  arm  about  her,  of  his  kiss  upon  her  lips,  abashed,  abased 
in  her  own  esteem.  She  had  been  a  double  hypocrite  ;  she  had 
deceived  herself  as  well  as  him,  for  at  the  time  she  had  not  felt 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  99 

thus.     Why  was  this  ?     She  sought  with  her  clear  analytical 
power  of  self-examination  to  solve  this  mystery.     "Was  it  that 
habit  had  blunted  the  edge  of  her  senses,  and  made  them  traitors 
to  themselves  in  obedience  to  her  unconscious  will  ?     Or  was  it 
that  his  presence  exercised   over   her  some   strange  magnetic 
influence,  forcing  her  to  participate  in  some  degree  in  his  feel 
ings  while  he  was  near  her  ?     She  could  not  decide.     She  only 
knew  a  sense  of  wrong,  and  shame,  and  bitter  self-contempt  was 
rankling  at  her  heart.     From  all  this  one  deduction  was  plain — 
there  was  in  her  no  love  for  Mr.  Mayance  that  warranted  her  in 
becoming  his  wife ;   there  was  proof  enough  of  this  (if  indeed 
such  questions  ever  need  proofs)  in  the  fact  that,  if  the  caresses 
she  had  received  from   him   had  been   purely  brotherly,    the 
memory  of  them  would  not  have  shocked  and  revolted  her  as 
it  did  now.     Then  arose  the  thought  that  he  loved  her — truly 
loved  her,  and  that  she  had  wronged  him  ;  for,    though   she 
had  promised  nothing,  avowed  nothing,  yet  was  it  not  wronging 
him   to   bid  him   hope  ?     And,    then,   her  mother — her  poor 
mother,  whose  heart  was  so  set  upon  this  marriage,  believing  it 
to  be  a  settled,  certain  thing.     Involuntarily  she  uttered  a  low 
groan  as  thought  after  thought  like  surging  waves  rushed  over 
her.     Her  heart  had  ached  bitterly  many  and  many  a  time,  but 
never  it  seemed  to  her  with  such  intense  and  unmitigated  pain 
as  now.     Alas  !  poor,  isolated  child !     Not  less  isolated  in  soul 
than  in  position ;  it  was  ever  thus  she  bore  her  heaviest  sorrows, 
unshared,  unsympathized  with.     She  sat,  she  knew  not  how 
long,  lost  in  these  turbulent  and  tormenting  thoughts,  till  she 
was  chilled  through  by  the  dews  of  the  fall  night ;  then,  she 
arose,  and  closed  the  window,  and  went  towards  her  bed.     By 
the  side  of  it,  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  fell  upon  her 
knees — not  to  pray,  she  was  not  calm  enough  for  that,  but  to 
bend  her    head    beneath   the  influence   of   something  purer, 
stronger,  holier,  than  our  frail  humanity.     She  rose  somewhat 
more  serene,  lay  down,  and  after 'tossing  for  a  while  fell  asleep. 

It  was  not  until  after  breakfast  the.  next  day,  when  mother 


100  NAOMI  TOEBENTE  : 

and  daughter  had  sat  down  with  their  sewing  in  the  parlor,  that 
the  former  noticed  her  child's  pale  cheeks  and  heavy  eyes. 

"  Naomi,"  she  said  smiling,  "  Mr.  Mayance  would  feel  much 
complimented  if  he  could  see  your  face  to-day." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  Naomi  answered  gravely,  "  that  he  would  be 
anything  but  complimented  could  he  know  the  cause." 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

The  young  girl  continued  sewing  for  some  minutes  before  she 
answered,  and  when  she  did  speak,  it  was  in  that  steady,  calm 
way  so  full  of  meaning  in  her. 

"  I  mean,  mother,  that  I  do  not  think  I  love  Mr.  Mayance 
well  enough  to  be  his  wife." 

"  O I  child !  child  I  I  thought  you  had  given  up  that  way 
wardness  which  is  the  greatest  fault  in  your  character." 

"  I  may  be  wayward,  mother,  but  this  is  not  waywardness — 
but  simple  fact." 

"  Fact  that  you  do  not  love  Mr.  Mayance  ?  Why,  then,  are 
you  unhappy  in  his  absence  ?  and  so  enlivened  by  his  pre 
sence  ?" 

"  You  do  not  understand  me.  I  have  esteem,  regard,  attach 
ment  for  him,  but  not  love" 

"  How  can  you  know  that  you  do  not  love  him,  since  you 
yourself  confess  that  he  is  dear  to  you  ?  You  have  never  had 
any  feeling  of  any  other  nature  with  which  to  compare  it." 

Naomi  made  no  reply.  How  could  she  say  that  already,  alas  I 
in  her  life  there  had  been  a  feeling  of  another  nature,  which  had 
taught  her  the  immeasurable  distance  that  lies  between  love  and 
affection,  however  true  and  deep.  Mrs.  Torrente  continued  : 

"  You  may  find  your  feeling  for  him  cold  and  tame  compared 
to  the  romantic  sentiments  of  which  we  read,  and  which  are  very 
rare  in  real  life ;  but  that  does  not  prove  that  you  do  not  love 
him.  It  grieves  me,  and  it  vexes  me,  too,  that  you  should  let 
such  foolish  fancies  influence  you.  I  do  not  see  what  you  or 
anyone  else  could  ask  better  than  a  true,  reciprocal  affection." . 
"  I  would  ask  what  you  felt  for  my  father  when  you  left 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  101 

family,  and  home,  and  luxury  to  share  the  fortunes  of  a  poor 
exile." 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  most  effectually  silenced  for  a  moment,  but 
recovering  herself,  answered : 

"  The  difference  consists  in  the  fact  that  I  was  opposed  and 
you  are  quite  the  contrary.  Perhaps  if  you  had  opposition  to 
contend  with,  you  would  discover  how  strong  your  feelings 
are." 

Amused  at  this  ingenious  reply,  Naomi  sat  with  a  half  smile 
on  her  pale  face,  thinking  whether  there  might  not  be  really 
something  in  this  argument.  But  a  little  reflection  soon  con 
vinced  her  of  its  fallacy.  With  a  long  sigh  she  slowly  shook 
her  head,  more  in  answer  to  herself  than  to  her  mother,  and 
unconsciously  fell  into  thought.  Mrs.  Torrente,  with  her  head 
upon  her  hand,  and  her  work  fallen  listlessly  in  her  lap,  was 
silent  for  several  minutes ;  then  she  said  very  earnestly  : 

"  I  must  not  urge  you  to  a  marriage  in  the  least  distasteful  to 
you.  It  would  be  the  greatest  sorrow  of  my  life  if  I  should 
have  to  reproach  myself  with  having  influenced  you  to  an  un 
happy  union.  You  must  think  and  decide  for  yourself.  Only 
I  beg  you  don't  let  fancies  and  whims  unworthy  of  a  girl  of 
your  sense  have  weight  in  determining  you.  I  confess  I  have 
desired,  and  still  do  desire  this  marriage,  for  I  think  sometimes," 
her  voice  grew  a  little  unsteady,  "  that  I  may  not  be  with  you 
long.  The  young  are  always  thoughtless,  and  besides  this,  you 
have  grown  so  used  to  see  me  live  along  from  year  to  year  in 
this  feeble  way,  it  never  occurs  to  you  that  there  cannot  be  even 
the  ordinary  surety  of  life  with  such  broken  health.  O  !  Naomi, 
you  cannot  conceive  what  I  suffer  when  the  thought  of  leaving 
you  in  the  world  alone,  unprovided*  for,  comes  over  me.  Yet, 
even  that,  dreadful  as  it  is,  would  be  better,  I  suppose,  than  to 
have  you  married  against  your  will." 

"  Do  you  feel  worse  than  usual,  dear  mother,  that  you  talk  so 
gloomily  ?"  said  Naomi,  hurriedly  throwing  aside  her  work  and 
crossing  to  her  mother's  side.  "  Why,  you  are  not  old — not 


102  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

very  ill  ?  Oh  !  don't  •  talk  so,  don't  feel  so,  and  I  will  do  any 
thing  you  wish." 

"  No,  no,  darling.  I  have  reflected  that  it  is  wrong  for  me 
to  urge  you.  Do  as  you  please,  and  then  you  will  do  what  I 
wish." 

No  more  was  said,  but  Naomi,  kneeling  there  with  her  head 
upon  her  mother's  knees,  wept  long  and  bitterly. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

MB.  MAYANCE  was  absent  exactly  the  time  he  had  anticipated 
— a  week  ;  during  which  he  wrote  several  times  to  Naomi.  His 
letters  were,  as  most  people's  are,  very  like  himself,  affectionate 
and  sincere,  but  with  no  thrill  of  palpitating  passion  breathing 
through  them.  Naomi  answered  all  his  letters  at  once ;  very 
frigidly,  it  must  be  owned,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  the  con 
trary. 

He  came  back.  At  sight  of  his  face,  beaming  with  the  plea 
sure  of  seeing  her  again — on  observing  the  unaffected  emotion  of 
his  manner,  Naomi  felt  a  pang  of  self-reproach  as  if  her  own 
want  of  reciprocal  feeling  were  some  fault  of  hers.  Her  manner 
was  constrained  and  cold;  she  hardly  knew  how  to  treat  him. 

"When  they  were  at  last  alone,  he  changed  his  seat  from  the 
arm-chair  to  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  said  gently  : 

" Shall  I  not  have  now  my  welcoming  kiss?" 

She  drew  away. 

u  There  is  no  need.  We  shook  hands,  and  that  is  just  as 
good.  You  know  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  am  glad  to  be  informed  that  I  know  it ;  for  really 
otherwise  I  should  have  been  for  ever  ignorant  of  it.  "Well  I  let 
that  go.  Will  you  at  le'ast  fulfil  your  promise  to  give  me  a 
definite  answer  now  that  I  am  here  again  ?" 

Naomi  looked  steadily  at  the  floor,  and  made  no  reply. 

Thinking  that  perhaps  the  slight  vexation  in  his  manner  had 
offended  her,  he  said  in  a  softened  tone : 

"  Have  I  not  been  patient  enough,  Naomi  ?  You  have  surely 
resolved  on  something ;  let  me  know  your  resolution.  This  sus 
pense  is  becoming  irksome.  Come!  one  word — -just  one  ;  it  can 


104  NAOMI  TOERENTE: 

all  be  summed  up  in  that,  and  we  shall  know  once  for  all  what 
we  have  to  depend  on." 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said  slowly,  in  a  low  hesitating  voice,  "  I 
really  cannot  resolve  to  marry." 

"This,  then,  is  your  decision?"  he  asked,  his  face  growing 
grave  and  slightly  pale. 

She  paused  a  while,  and  then,  in  the  same  not  very  firm  tone, 
said:  "Yes." 

"  That  is  quite  enough,"  he  said  coldly,  and  rising  abruptly. 
"  Pardon  all  the  trouble  I  have  given  you.  Good  bye  1" 

Going  away  thus !  Ending  everything  in  this  summary  way 
at  once  and  for  ever  1  Going  away  with  a  heart  torn  with  dis 
appointed  affection  and  wounded  pride.  In  the  sudden  pain  that 
filled  her  own  heart  at  this  thought,  in  her  almost  irrepressible 
wish  to  retain  him,  Naomi  felt  that  the  fatality  of  circumstances 
had  so  inwound  him  with  her  life  that  he  was  necessary  to  her. 
Yet  she  would  not  be  ruled  by  these  feelings.  Momentary 
impulses  were  false  guides.  Alone,  uninfluenced  by  interest  or 
sympathy  which  formed  so  large  a  part  of  her  nature,  unmagnet- 
ized  by  the  atmosphere  of  passion,  she  had  thought  herself  out 
correctly  ;  and  so  it  must  remain. 

"  We  are  friends  still,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand.  He 
took  it  precisely  as  he  would  have  taken  the  hand  of  any  one  else 
in  the  world.- 

"  Most  assuredly  we  are  friends,  and  shall  ever  be  so,  I  trust. 
Once  more  good  bye !" 

He  bowed  with  the  same  measured  politeness,  more  cutting 
than  the  bitterest  words,  and  disappeared  in  the  dark  hall.  She 
heard  his  retreating  steps  on  the  porch,  on  the  walk,  and  for  a 
moment  on  the  street  pavement,  then  they  died  away ;  he  was 
gone  I 


THE   HISTOEY   OF   A   WOMAN.  105 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

FOUR  or  five  days  had  passed.  Oh !  how  miserably  to  Naomi. 
Mrs.  Torrente,  noticing  the  cessation  of  Mr.  Mayance's  visits, 
quietly  asked  what  had  happened,  and  was  as  quietly  answered. 
She  made  no  comment  of  any  kind,  only  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her 
child  with  an  increased  melancholy  that  went  to  the  young  girl's 
heart. 

The  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day,  more  than  usually  oppressed 
by  the  dull  weight  of  gloom  that  had  fallen  on  her,  Naomi  threw 
on  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  went  to  take  a  walk  upon  the  Ave 
nue  ;  there  she  would  see  people,  and  her  attention  would  be 
a  little  diverted. 

She  had  just  passed  Willard's,  when,  coming  slowly  towards 
her,  apparently  entirely  absorbed  in  conversation  with  a  remark 
ably  pretty  girl,  she  saw  Mr.  Mayance.  Possibly  she  would 
not  have  been  seen  by  him  (so  at  least  she  thought)  had  not  his 
fair  companion  drawn  up  her  eyes  rather  impertinently  as  she 
neared  Naomi ;  and  his  eyes  seeking,  and  instantly  recognizing 
the  object  of  her  regard,  a  bow  of  profoundly  respectful  gravity 
was  the  immediate  consequence.  But  there  was  no  smile,  no 
involuntary  half  pause.  He  bowed  as  he  would  have  bowed  to 
a  woman  of  sixty,  and  passed  on. 

Naomi  had  felt  cheek  and  brow  flush  at  the  impertinent  gaze, 
and  flush  still  more  at  the  distant  salutation ;  but  the  blood  on 
her  cheek  had  the  sharp  tingle  of  anger,  and  her  little  proud  foot 
smote  the  ground  with  a  rapid  acceleration  of  pace. 

So,  then  ?  What  a  fool  to  have  sympathized  with  his  fancied 
sorrow  and  disappointment  I  A  very  deep  and  tender  love,  in 
deed,  that  had  found  consolation  for  the  loss  of  its  object  in  five 


106  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

days  !  And  this  pretty,  elegantly  dressed  girl  was  his  cousin  ; 
the  Clara  whose  name  had  been  dinned  into  her  ears  till  its  very 
sound  had  become  hateful  to  her.  How  very  foolishly  triumph 
ant  she  must  feel,  not  knowing  that  she  had  not  won  him  from 
any  one,  but  was  simply  accepting  what  some  one  had  rejected. 

She  turned  off  the  Avenue  in  *a»  few  minutes,  and,  fearful  of 
again  meeting  them,  regained  her  home  by  a  side  street.  Mrs. 
Torrente  was  still  asleep.  "With  bonnet  and  cloak  dashed  off, 
Naomi  paced  the  floor,  still  occupied  with  this  disturbing  train 
of  thought.  Miss  Clara  did  not  know  that  if  she,  Naomi,  should 
will  it,  she  could  draw  Mr.  Mayance  back  as  easily  as  she  could 
seat  herself  at  her  desk  and  write  a  note. 

She  would  not  do  it,  though.  She  let  him  know  that  she 
could  be  piqued  by  his  attentions  to  another !  she  condescend  to 
struggle  to  retain  or  recall  any  man,  even  though  it  were  one 
she  loved  with  all  the  strength  of  her  nature !  No ;  her  stub 
born  pride  could  never  stoop  to  that.  So,  with  an  effort,  smooth 
ing  her  troubled  face,  she  persuaded  herself  into  the  belief  that 
she  would  think  no  more  of  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Mayance. 

Very  early  in  the  evening  Colonel  Familiar  called,  and  saying 
there  was  to  be  a  fine  concert  that  evening,  added  that  he  should 
be  happy  to  take  Naomi  to  hear  it  if  her  mother  were  willing. 
She  of  course  being  so,  Naomi  was  soon  ready,  and  started — 
going  far  more  to  gratify  her  mother  than  herself — for  in  truth 
she  was  not  particularly  pleased  with  her  escort. 

The  concert  room  was  densely  crowded,  but  the  Colonel  at 
last  found  seats  in  the  middle  of  a  bench  packed  with  people. 
She  did  not  glance  around  her  till  seated,  and  when  she  did  so. 
found  with  a  flush  of  astonishment  and  confusion  that  Mr.  May 
ance  was  by  her  side.  This  could  not  be  a  plot  of  the  Colonel, 
for  he,  too,  looked  all  astonishment.  It  was  one  of  the  strange, 
inexplicable  chances  of  life,  upon  which  our  destinies  so  often 
turn,  and  which  would  almost  seem  to  prove  the  truth  of  the 
doctrine  of  fatalism.  There  was  the  usual  bowing,  the  usual 
mechanical  inquiries  about  health,  and  then  the  concert  com- 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   WOMAN.  107 

menced,  and  the  Colonel  became  entirely  absorbed  in  the  music. 
Mr.  Mayance's  face  was  far  less  tranquil  than  it  had  been 
that  afternoon.  There  was  a  slight  tinge  of  color  upon  his 
cheeks,  his  eyes  had  a  varying  light,  and  his  voice,  when  he 
spoke,  quivered  perceptibly. 

Neither  was  Naomi  as  calm  as  she  would  have  wished  to  be. 
Whether  it  was  that  the  shock  of  so  unexpected  a  meeting  had 
started  her  blood  to  a  more  rapid  circulation,  or  that  indeed 
some  pleasurable  thrill  had  pervaded  her,  certain  it  was  that 
her  face  glowed  with  new  animation.  Mr.  Mayance  was  the 
first  to  speak : 

"  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  the  Avenue  this  after 
noon  ?" 

Something  of  sarcasm,  something  of  light  raillery  was  in 
Naomi's  tone,  as  she  answered : 

"  Yes ;   I  saw  you  with  your  inamorata." 

"My  inamorata!  She  is  not  so;  she  is  only  a  gentle,  sym 
pathizing  friend,  who  does  not  trifle  with  my  heart  and  throw  it 
aside  with  indifference  when  weary." 

Naomi  grew  a  little  pale,  and  bit  her  lip.  His  words  stung 
bitingly.  The  implied  reproach  was  not  entirely  groundless. 
Paying  no  attention,  however,  to  the  remark,  she  answered : 

"  I  always  thought  you  loved  her,  and  I  am  sure  of  it  now." 

"You.  were  always  mistaken,  then,  and  are  still  more  so 
now,"  answered  he,  without  thinking  that  he  was  speaking  with 
a  ruinous  frankness,  according  to  his  views  of  diplomacy.  In 
reality,  though,  he  could  not  have  adopted  a  tone  better  calcu 
lated  to  win  its  way  to  Naomi's  heart.  He  continued :  "  "What 
matters  it  to  you  whom  I  love  ?  Had  our  last  interview  never 
taken  place,  I  might  have  flattered  myself  that  you  had  some 
interest  in  the  question  ;  but,  as  it  is,  that  would  be  absurd." 

Naomi  was  silent  for  several  minutes.  A  thousand,  feelings 
struggled  within  her.  Why,  she  knew  not,  but  never  before  had 
she  felt  so  warmly,  so  tenderly  towards  Mr.  Mayance.  She 
thought  of  his  love  for  her — his  true,  honorable  love.  She 


108  NAOMI  TOKRENTE  : 

thought  of  her  own  dark,  unsettled  future,  of  her  mother,  and 
the  resolution  she  had  deemed  irrevocable  yielded  before  the 
combined  assault  of  so  many  powerful  influences ;  in  a  low, 
unsteady  voice  she  said : 

"  Forget  all  that  was  said  that  evening— blot  it  out  from  the 
past,  and  let  us  go  back  to  where  we  were  before.  Will  you?" 
"  Not  to  where  we  were  before,  Naomi,"  he  said,  repressing 
the  eager  tone  in  which  it  had  been  his  first  impulse  to  reply  to 
her.  "If  we  go  back  it  must  not  be  on  uncertainties,  but  on 
some  fixed  resolve  of  yours." 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  wish  me  to — to — " 
"  To  promise  to  become  my  wife.     Yes,  Naomi,  that  is  what 
I  mean." 

She  stammered  in  so  low,  oh,  so  very  low  a  voice,  that  only  a 
lover's  ear  would  have  caught  the  words : 
"  Well— I  promise— that— " 

He  quietly  clasped  the  little  hand  that  nearest  him  lay  nest 
ling  amid  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and,  with  more  of  ardor  in  his 
eyes  than  Naomi  had  ever  seen  there  before,  thanked  her  with  a 
tender,  fervent  pressure. 

The  music  suddenly  ceased.     There  was  an  interval  of  twenty 
minutes,  and  the  Colonel,  coming  from  his  entire  absorption  in 
the  music  (an  absorption  perfectly  real,  of  course,  and  quite  con 
sistent  with  his  prosaic  character),  turned  and  inquired  in  a  very 
natural  way  how  they  had  been  pleased.     Both  answered  rather 
confusedly  that  they  had  been  delighted ;  and  then  the  two  gen 
tlemen  entered  into  conversation,  which  allowed  Naomi  to  be 
exactly  what  she  wished  to  be — quiet.     When  the  music  re-com 
menced,  Naomi  and  Mr.  Mayance  sat,  still  with  locked  hands, 
listening.     At  some  of  the  passages  from  the  operas,  replete 
with  all  that  intensity  of  passion  that  only  music  can  adequately 
express,  the  young  girl  felt  her  heart  swell  ft>r  an  instant  with 
its  old,  wild,  inborn  aspiratipns  ;  but  she  turned  impatiently  from 
them.     "  Dreams — vain  dreams !"  she  murmured  within  herself. 
"  Delusions  that  serve  only  to  mislead.      There  is  a  true,  loving 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   WOMAN.  109 

heart  beside  me,  on  which  I  can  repose  with  confidence  and  a 
sense  of  relief." 

When  the  concert  was  over,  Mr.  Ma}Tance  walked  with  the 
Colonel  to  Naomi's  door,  there  they  bade  her  good  night,  Mr. 
Mayance  whispering  with  a  lingering  pressure  of  the  hand : 

"  Till  to-morrow  morning,  dear." 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  already  in  bed,  and  Naomi  ran  at  once 
up-stairs.  She  found  her  mother  still  awake,  and  longing  to 
tell  her  what  had  passed,  she  lingered  for  a  long  time  answer 
ing  her  mother's  questions  and  striving  to  gain  courage  to 
speak;  but  something  stronger  than  her  will  prevented,  and 
she  went  to  bed  in  silence. 


110  NAOMI  TOKKENTE 


CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

ABOUT  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Mayance  rang  the 
bell  at  Mrs.  Torrente's  door,  and  sent  up  his  name  to  Mrs.  Tor- 
rente.  Naomi,  anticipating  something  of  this  kind,  escaped  from 
the  bed-room,  where  she  had  been  assisting  her  mother  to  dress, 
at  the  first  tinkle  of  the  door  bell,  and  took  refuge  in  the  garret. 

"  Bless  me !"  said  Mrs.  Torrente,  on  receiving  the  message. 
"  Naomi !  why,  where's  the  child  gone  ?  What  can  bring  Mr. 
Mayance  here  ?" 

Descending  in  rather  a  flurried  condition,  she  found  the  gen 
tleman  seated  on  the  sofa,  looking  as  serenely  happy  as  possible. 
He  started  up  at  sight  of  her,  assisted  her  to  her  arm-chair, 
arranged  with  affectionate  care  the  cushions  for  her  feet,  and, 
drawing  up  a  chair,  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  I  have  feared  that  I  should  never  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  again,  Mr.  Mayance,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  puzzled  plea 
sure  on  her  face. 

"  Yesterday  at  this  hour,  Mrs.  Torrente,  I  had  no  idea  that  we 
should  ever  meet  again ;  but  last  night  changed  the  programme. 
Last  night  I  met  Miss  Naomi  at  the  Concert,  and  had  a  conver 
sation  with  her,  which  has  resulted  in  bringing  me  here  to  ask 
you  to  accept  me  as  a  son.  "Will  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Torrente  was  too  much  astonished  to  reply  for  several 
minutes.  Her  eyes  filled  with  happy  tears,  and,  giving  Mr. 
Mayance  both  her  hands,  she  said  earnestly  : 

"  I  do,  with  all  my  heart.  I  love  you  already  as  a  son,  and 
can  look  upon  you  now,  as  I  have  so  long  wished  to  look  upon 
you,  as  the  future  husband  of  my  beloved  child.  I  will  ask  no 
questions  ;  I  do  not  care  to  know  how  it  was  brought  about;  it 
is  enough  that  it  is  so." 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  Ill 

"  I  thank  you  very  much,  indeed.  You  know  already  my 
position,  my  circumstances ;  something,  too,  of  my  character ; 
enough  to  be  willing  to  entrust  to  my  keeping  the  happiness  of 
your  dear  child.  What  can  I  say  more  than  that  I  am  deeply 
grateful,  and  will  strive  to  deserve  the  confidence  you  place  in 
me." 

"  And  now  tell  me,  when  it  is  to  be  ?" 

"  Oh  !  that,"  answered  he,  laughing  and  shaking  his  head,  "is 
a  great  deal  more  than  I  am  able  to  say.  It  depends,  of  course, 
on  the  will  of  Naomi  ;  and  whether  she  will  be  kind  or  cruel  I 
am  still  ignorant.  Is  she  at  home  ?" 

"  She  ran  away  as  soon  as  she  heard  your  name  announced. 
I  understand  why,  now  ;  shall  I  call  her  ?" 

"  No  ;  it  is  better  not  now ;  I  will  come  this  evening.  Till 
then,  good-bye." 

Mrs.  Torrente,  after  vainly  calling  Naomi  from  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  ascended  to  the  attic.  There  she  found  the  young  girl, 
thrown  upon  an  unused  cot,  lying  quite  still,  her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands.  The  mother  laughingly  pulled  her  to  her  feet,  and 
saw  that  her  face  was  flushed  and  damp  as  4  though  with  tears. 
Yet  she  did  not  look  unhappy.  Her  eyes  drooped  with  a  sweet 
air  of  maidenly  confusion,  and  a  half  smile  parted  her  rosy  lips. 

"  So,  after  all  your  whims  and  waywardness,"  the  mother  said, 
"  it  really  is  to  be,  Naomi — it  really  is  to  be  ?" 


112  NAOMI  TOEEENTE  : 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

A  STATE  of  indecision  is  generally  considered  the  most  unen 
durable  of  all  conditions;  and  yet  a  certainty  which  is  not 
entirely  agreeable  can  scarcely  be  considered  a  relief ;  for  hope, 
with  its  divinely  cheering  power,  is  always  an  element  of  uncer 
tainty.  Thus  Naomi,  now  that  she  had  placed  herself  in  a  posi 
tion  where  to  recede  would  be  dishonorable,  heartless,  mad,  felt 
at  times  like  one  who,  in  a  nightmare,  strives  to  move,  and  only 
feels  that  his  feet  are  chained  to  earth  ;  strives  to  cry  out,  and  is 
only  conscious  of  his  utter  inability  to  utter  a  sound. 

Now,  indeed,  commenced  in  good  earnest  the  persuading, 
arguing,  importuning  to  fix  the  day.  Naomi  laughed  at  the 
persuasions,  defeated  the  arguments,  and,  with  airy  grace,  evaded 
the  importunities.  "Well,  when  was  the  young  girl  to  begin  her 
preparations?  Why?  What  hurry?  Was  there  not  always 
plenty  of  time  ?  Two  months  more  passed  thus,  and  poor  Mr. 
Mayance  positively  wearied.  Truth  to  say,  he  had  exercised  an 
amount  of  patience  that  could  only  be  explained  by  the  univer 
sally  conceded  fact,  that  to  men  the  pursuit  is  half  the  attraction. 

One  cold,  sparkling  morning,  after  having  had  the  preceding 
evening  almost  a  quarrel  on  this  subject,  Naomi,  towards  noon, 
wanders  into  the  parlor,  feeling  rather  dull,  and  much  to  her 
astonishment  sees  Mr.  Mayance  standing  by  the  fire,  his  face  a 
little  grave — a  little  stern,  perhaps,  but  yet  wearing  no  expres 
sion  of  anger  or  unkindness. 

"  The  morning  is  so  bright  and  beautiful,  Naomi,"  he  says, 
after  the  first  salutations  are  exchanged,  "  that  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  take  a  walk.  Will  you  go  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes.     With  pleasure." 

She  goes  up,  gets  ready,  and  descends  again  with  a  sense  of 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  113 

relief,  that  lie  has  forgotten  his  irritation  of  the  night  previous, 
takes  his  offered  arm,  and  they  start.  They  walk  on  down  the 
Avenue  for  some  distance  in  silence.  His  face  is  full  of  grave 
thought,  and  there  is  a  shade  of  unrelenting  determination  hard 
ening  its  lines  that  does  not  please  Naomi.  He  says  at  last 
slowly  and  very  quietly,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice  and  the  im 
port  of  his  words  harmonize  so  perfectly  with  the  expression  of 
his  face,  that  it  almost  seems  to  Naomi  as  if  he  had  resumed  the 
conversation  at  the  point  where  he  had  left  it  after  a  momentary 
pause : 

"  To-day,  Naomi,  must  bring  things  to  a  crisis  with  us.  I  am 
weary  of  being  trifled  with.  Understand,  I  do  not  wish  to 
force  in  the  slightest  degree  your  inclinations ;  only  I  wish  to 
know  positively,  beyond  the  reach  of  doubt,  what  your 
inclinations  are.  I  cannot  dally  here  any  longer;  my 
business  calls  me  home.  Are  you  ready  now  to  become  my 
wife  ?  Answer  frankly — answer  decisively — for  I  must  know 
to-day." 

She  hears  him  through  silently,  without  any  change  of  color. 
Her  face,  which  she  slowly  averts  from  him,  wears  a  look  half 
dread,  half  hesitation.  So,  mute,  unconscious  of  the  objects 
she  passes,  unconscious  of  the  many  eyes  that  regard  her,  she 
walks  on  for  some  minutes.  He  gently  presses  to  his  side  the 
little  hand  that  lightly  rests  upon  his  arm,  and  says,  in  a  tender 
tone: 

"  Pardon  me,  Naomi,  if  I  have  spoken  harshly ;  you  must 
acknowledge  that  my  patience  has  been  sorely  tried.  See  now ! 
Here,  on  Capitol  Hill,  but  a  few  rods  from  us,  lives  an  Epis 
copal  clergyman.  What  is  there  to  prevent  our  going  and  being 
married  now,  this  very  minute  ?  Then  there  will  be  an  end  to 
all  this  hesitation  and  shrinking.  Come,  resolve  !  Say  yes." 

One  last  flitting  shadow,  one  momentary  struggle  more,  and 
then  her  face  grows  quite  calm.  As  it  settles  into  this  expres 
sion,  the  color  all  fades  from  it ;  but  yet  her  eyes  are  kind,  and 
something  like  a  smile  hovers  around  her  lips.  She  looks  at 

8 


NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

him  steadily,  looks  at  him  as  she  has  never  looked  before,  and 
gently  says: 

"  I  am  willing,  Gaspar  ;  let  us  go." 

His  only  acknowledgment  is  the  sudden  lighting  of  his  face, 
and  a  more  rapid  step,  as  though  longing  to  hasten  the  moment 
of  binding  her  beyond  the  possibility  of  recall.  Naomi  must 
have  gone  through  all  that  followed  like  one  in  a  dream, 
for  like  a  dream  she  remembers  it  in  after  times.  She  remem 
bers  ascending  a  porch,  and  listening  to  the  tinkling  sound  of 
a  bell ;  finding  herself  in  a  parlor ;  a  tall  man  with  iron-grey 
hair  standing  before  her ;  and  noticing  the  motionless  figures 
of  two  or  three  women  about  the  room ;  then  that  she  stood 
herself  with  such  a  sensation  of  giddiness  that  earth  seemed 
melting  from  beneath  her  feet,  and  laid  her  hand  in  that  of 
Gaspar ;  then,  of  finding  herself  in  the  street  again,  with  the 
frosty  air  blowing  revivingly  in  her  face,  and  mechanically 
feeling  a  plain  gold  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand. 
As  they  walk  on  and  on,  natural  warmth  returns  to  her  fro 
zen  hands ;  she  sees  that  they  are  leaving  the  Capitol  behind 
them,  and  realizes  what  has  taken  place.  Gaspar  laughingly 
puts  a  paper  in  her  hand,  and  glancing  at  it,  she  sees  that  it 
is  the  certificate  of  her  marriage.  Naomi  Torrente  no  longer, 
Naomi  Mayance — Mrs.  Naomi  Mayance — now.  She  turns 
towards  her  husband,  and  leans  a  little  clingingly  on  the  arm 
that  seems  to  her  to  be  yielded  with  more  protecting  affection 
than  of  old.  Then  she  looks  up  and  meets  his  eyes  bent  on 
her  with  the  inexpressible  softness  of  happy  tenderness,  and 
answers  the  glance  with  a  frank,  confiding  smile.  Too  many 
thoughts  and  feelings  are  busy  within  them  for  conversation. 
So  they  reach  home  in  silence.  Dinner  is  being  served  in 
the  little  back  parlor;  in  the  front  parlor  Mrs.  Torrente 
is  moving  about.  Gaspar  takes  Naomi  by  the  hand,  and, 
leading  her  up  to  her  mother,  says  gaily,  though  reverently 
too: 

"  This  is  my  wife,  dear    mother ;    we  want  your  blessing." 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A   WOMAN".  115 

And  Mrs.  Torrente,  with  flushed  face  and  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  looks  wondering  from  one  to  the  other,  and  seeing  that 
it  is  no  jest,  but  literal  truth  indeed,  says,  with  a  solemn 
joy:  " God  bless  you,  dearest  children.  God  give  you  strength 
to  do  your  duty  to  each  other." 


116  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THERE  were  long  consultations  now  in  the  family  circle,  to 
arrange  matters  as  speedily  as  possible  for  their  removal  to 
New  York.  Mrs.  Torrente,  as  a  matter  of  course,  was  to  reside 
with  Naomi,  and  she  was  impatient  to  see  her  dear  child  esta 
blished  in  her  new  home.  Yet,  in  her  feeble  state  of  health,  it 
could  not  be  deemed  advisable  for  her  to  undertake  the  journey 
in  the  winter ;  so  it  was  decided  that  Gaspar  should  so  arrange 
his  affairs  as  to  be  able  to  remain  in  "Washington,  going  back 
and  forth  occasionally,  until  the  spring. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant,  cheerful  family  circle  now  that  in  the 
winter  evenings  assembled  in  the  little  parlor.  Mrs.  Torrente  in 
her  arm-chair  and  her  feet  upon  her  cushion,  paler  and  thinner 
than  of  old,  yet  with  such  a  serenely  happy  face  and  manner 
that  it  seemed  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  ask  of  Heaven  in 
this  earthly  life ;  Gaspar  generally  bending  over  law  papers, 
and  Naomi  with  a  book  or  some  light  sewing,  seated  near  her 
husband.  Something  of  the  old  expression  of  profound,  hushed 
melancholy  had  gone  from  her  face.  A  look  of  mild  content 
ment  and  tranquil  tenderness  softened  now  the  lines  that  of  old 
w,ere  somewhat  haughty  in  repose.  It  was  not  the  mien  of  per 
fect  rest  in  a  perfect  and  completed  love,  that  cannot  even  dream 
of  anything  more  blissful  than  itself;  but  it  was  the  face  of  a 
woman  who  has  accepted  her  destiny  and  reconciled  herself  with 
it,  not  in  mere  tame  resignation,  but  with  a  heart  resolved  to 
cling  and  pour  out  where  it  legitimately  may  all  that  it  can  from 
its  inexhaustible  founts  of  love  and  devotion.  Doubts,  and 
struggles,  and  contending  feelings,  in  as  far  as  her  will  had  any 
power  over  them,  had  been  laid  aside  as  things  she  could  have 
wished  had  never  been. 


THE   HISTORY   OP   A  WOMAN.  117 

Upon  her  restless,  longing  heart  she  had  impressed  the 
thought  that  she  had  voluntarily  accepted  the  trust  of  the  hap 
piness  of  one  who  loved  her,  and  to  her  nature,  full  of  tfye 
noblest  generosity,  this  consideration  was  the  most  sacred  of  all 
obligations. 

As  to  Gaspar,  after  the  first  few  days,  his  joy  in  the  attain 
ment  of  the  long-pursued  and  much-desired  object  subsided  into 
a  feeling  of  calm  happiness.  In  his  nature  there  were  no  great 
depths  of  yearning  tenderness  and  passion.  Once  secure  in  the 
possession  of  Naomi,  the  placid,  even  tenor  of  his  life  re-com 
menced.  His  manner,  almost  always  gentle  and  affectionate, 
very  rarely  ever  warmed  into  fervor,  and,  loving  Naomi  as  he 
certainly  did  with  the  most  ardent  feeling  of  which  he  was 
capable,  he  was  yet  very  far  from  comprehending  the  require 
ments  of  a  heart  like  hers. 

March  was  drawing  to  a  close,  but  the  weather  was  still 
unsettled.  Mrs.  Torrente  thought  that  about  the  middle  of 
April  it  would  be  sufficiently  warm  to  enable  her  to  make 
the  journey  to  New  York.  The  little  house  and  furniture 
which  belonged  to  her  during  her  life  she  had  decided  to  rent 
on  her  removal.  Of  late  Mrs.  Torrente,  though  quite  uncon 
scious  of  it  herself,  had  failed  rapidly.  Naomi  had  observed 
with  alarm  her  mother's  increased  feebleness,  and  anxiously 
spoken  of  it,  but  the  invalid  herself  would  confess  nothing  of 
the  kind,  and,  on  the  contrary,  asserted  that  the  sight  of  her 
child's  happiness  was  giving  her  new  life. 

Gaspar  had  gone  to  New  York,  to  make  preparations  for  the 
reception  of  the  family.  One  morning,  on  awaking,  Mrs.  Tor- 
rente,  without  making  any  definite  complaint,  said  languidly 
that  she  would  take  a  cup  of  coffee  in  bed.  Naomi  bent  tender 
ly  over  her,  and  said,  anxiously : 

"Dear  mamma,  do  you  feel  ill?  You  are  pale,  and  your 
eyes  are  heavy." 

"It  is  nothing,  dear,"  the  mother  answered.  "A  little 
fatigue.  I  shall  be  well  in  an  hour  or  two." 


118  NAOMI   TORRENTE  : 

All  day  Naomi  sat  by  the  bedside,  watching  her  mother's 
feverish  and  unquiet  sleep,  with  a  dull  weight  upon  her  that  she 
vainly  struggled  to  reason  away  or  shake  off.  Night  came,  and 
without  undressing  she  snatched  a  few  hours  of  sleep  with  her 
head  upon  her  mother's  pillow,  and  in  the  morning,  seeing  that 
the  invalid's  prostration  was  greatly  increased,  threw  on  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  leaving  their  only  domestic  in  attendance  during 
her  absence,  went  without  breakfasting  to  seek  a  physician. 
She  found  one  at  home  at  last,  and  obtaining  his  promise  to 
come  immediately,  returned  home. 

Blinded  and  sickened  by  the  daylight  glare,  so  out  of  keep 
ing  with  her  anxious  misgivings,  she  resumed  her  watch  by  her 
mother's  side,  and  ere  long  the  physician  came.  Mrs.  Torrente 
seemed  almost  lifelessly  feeble.  She  raised  herself  in  bed,  how 
ever,  with  Naomi's  assistance,"  and  listlessly  replied  to  the  doc 
tor's  questions.  Turning  to  Naomi,  he  said  there  seemed  to  be  a 
state  of  general  prostration,  which  should  be  combated  with  a 
nourishing  diet  and  gentle  stimulants.  Saying  this,  and  adding 
that  he  would  call  the  following  day,  he  went  away.  How  very 
unsatisfactory  I  No  disease  specified,  no  medicine  ordered.' 
How  was  the  invalid  to  take  nourishment  when  her  appetite  had 
entirely  failed  ?  Nevertheless,  the  doctor's  directions  were  faith 
fully  attended  to,  and  the  little  table  by  Mrs.  Torrente's  bed 
was  covered  with  wines,  cordials,  and  every  possible  delicacy, 
of  which  she,  at  Naomi's  earnest  entreaty,  essayed  to  partake 
with  a  feeble  smile,  always  ending  after  a  momentary  effort, 
"By-and-by,  darling;  I  have  no  appetite  now."  Two  days 
and  nights  passed  ;  two  days  and  nights  which  to  Naomi,  sleep 
ing  and  eating  only  by  snatches,  seemed  but  one  eternally 
lengthened  hour.  The  doctor's  morning  visit  had  been  regu 
larly  paid,  but  no  new  directions  given  and  no  opinion  pro 
nounced.  Each  silently  flying  hour  found  the  invalid  more  lan 
guid,  more  inclined  to  fall  into  short,  uneasy  dozes,  even  while 
sitting  up  in  bed  and  striving  to  talk.  If  such  a  paradox  were 
admissible,  it  might  be  said  that  Naomi  at  one  and  the  same 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  119 

time  realized,  and  did  not  realize,  her  mother's  danger.  She 
realized  it,  for  it  was  impossible  for  a  person  of  her  keen  and 
clear  perceptions  not  to  recognise  the  combination  of  fatal  symp 
toms  observable  in  her  mother ;  and  yet  she  did  not  realize  it, 
for  no  loving  heart,  ere  it  has  learnt  all  the  hard,  bitter  lessons 
of  life  by  experience,  can  believe  in  the  possibility  of  that  awful 
separation  from  the  beloved  one.  Yet,  ever  harassed  with  her 
boding  fears,  and  worn  with  watching,  she  became  so  nervous 
towards  the  close  of  the  third  day  that  she  sent  word  to  a  plain, 
kind-hearted  seamstress  who  had  worked  for  them  for  years  to 
come  and  sit  up  with  her  that  night. 

Mrs.  Drew,  that  was  her  name,  came  at  nightfall.  The  inva 
lid,  though  she  answered  coherently  when  addressed,  seemed 
almost  unconscious  of  what  was  passing,  and  took  no  notice  of 
the  new  arrival.  Mrs.  Drew  made  up  a  bed  upon  a  sofa  in  Mrs. 
Torrente's  room,  and,  by  alternate  reasoning  and  begging,  induced 
Naomi  to  undress  (a  thing  she  had  not  done  since  the  com 
mencement  of  her  mother's  illness)  and  go  to  bed.  Lying  there, 
with  a  light  beside  her,  Naomi  read  Gaspar's  last  letter,  which 
she  had  received  late  that  afternoon,  and  had  not  till  then  found 
time  even  to  open.  He  wondered  at  her  long  silence,  told  her 
how  lonely  his  days  were  without  her,  and  bade  her  be  careful 
of  herself  for  his  sake  and  the  sake  of  their  new  hope.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  coming  desolation  that  was  already  falling  over 
her,  Naomi  felt  her  heart  go  out  towards  her  husband  with  a 
truer,  deeper  tenderness.  She  ardently  desired  his  presence,  and 
fell  asleep  at  last  overpowered  with  weariness,  with  his  letter 
pressed  affectionately  to  her  cheek. 

Oblivious  of  all  things,  she  had  slumbered  on  for  two  hours, 
when  she  became  vaguely  conscious  of  the  murmur  of  voices. 
Bewildered  as  one  always  is  by  the  first'  sleep  after  long  vigils, 
she  was  for  a  moment  unable  to  determine  where  she  was  or 
what  was  passing.  Presently  her  mother's  voice,  low  and 
broken,  said :  "  Naomi !"  In  a  moment  the  daughter  was  by 
the  bedside.  Mrs.  Torrente  was  sitting  up,  her  figure  very  much 


120  NAOMI  TORKENTE: 

bent,  and  her  head  bowed  upon  her  bosom;  she  spoke  again 
with  a  great  effort :  "  Naomi,  I  am  very  much  exhausted." 

In  silence  Naomi  took  her  mother's  hands  in  hers.  They 
were  cold  and  damp.  In  silence  passed  her  hand  over  her 
mother's  brow,  bathed  with  a  cold  perspiration,  that  struck  a 
chill  of  horror  to  the  daughter's  heart.  Then,  still  in  silence, 
but  with  an  anguished  face,  more  eloquent  than  any  words  she 
could  have  spoken,  she  turned  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Drew.  The 
good  woman's  face  was  pale,  and  the  hand  she  laid  on  Naomi's 
arm  trembled. 

"We  can  do  nothing,  Miss  Naomi,  dear.  (It  was  the  old 
habit,  and  could  not  easily  be  thrown  aside.)  We  must  wait  till 
the  day  comes  in,  she  may  be  better  then." 

She  might  be  better  then.  Oh,  yes;  she  would  be  better 
then. 

The  sick  woman  asked  for  some  wine.  Mrs.  Drew  gave  it  to 
her,  and  gently  laid  her  down  upon  her  pillows.  Her  breathing 
was  fast  growing  hoarse  and  heavy  ;  her  dying  eyes  fast  losing 
their  discerning  power.  Her  long,  white  night-dress  sweeping 
the  floor,  blanched  to  the  pallor  of  death,  with  her  face  hidden 
in  her  hands,  Naomi  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  bed,  moaning  in 
helpless,  hopeless  agony.  Mrs.  Drew  went  to  her,  and  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  Oh,  pray,  Miss  Naomi,  whatever  you  do,  don't  make  an 
excitement.  She  is  going,  with  the  Lord's  mercy,  as  quietly  as  a 
child.  Don't  let  her  hear  you  sob  and  cry." 

Naomi's  only  answer  was  to  turn  and  crouch  upon  the  bed, 
covering  her  head  with  the  bed-clothes.  Thus  she  remained  for 
several  minutes,  holding  in  unconscious  check  the  wild  impulse 
that  was  upon  her  to  cry  out,  and  dash  herself  to  the  ground  in 
all  the  wild  abandonment  of  desperate  sorrow.  But  she  could 
not  bear  this  long.  Eising  with  a  sudden  movement,  and 
silencing  Mrs.  Drew  with  a  look,  she  went  quietly  and  knelt  so 
close  to  the  dying  woman  that  their  faces  almost  touched. 

"  Can  you  speak  one  word  to  me,  mother  ?" 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN. 

The  lips  moved ;  something — something  like  a  sound  came 
forth. 

"Do  you  know — are  you  resigned  to  the  will  of  God?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  have  I  been  to  you  the  child  I  should  ?  Have 
I  done  my  duty  ?" 

«  Yes— yes." 

"  And  you  can  leave  me  without  fear,  without  anxiety  ?" 

"  Yes — quite — quite." 

There  were  a  few  more  words,  but  they  were  inaudible  even 
to  the  strained  ear  that  listened  ;  then  a  slight  shiver  ran  through 
all  her  frame,  and  the  head  fell ;  it  was  over. 

Then,  indeed,  there  was  no  longer  need  of  restraint,  and  with 
a  long,  piercing  cry  Naomi  threw  herself  upon  the  floor.  Poor 
frightened  Mrs.  Drew,  raising  her,  begged  her  with  the  most 
moving  terms  she  could  think  of  to  command  herself,  but 
Naomi,  pushing  her  away,  embraced  and  apostrophized  the  cold, 
still  form  till  she  sank  exhausted  upon  the  bed. 

Gaspar  was  telegraphed,  and  arrived  the  next  morning.  He 
found  Naomi  very  ill.  The  agony  of  a  mother's  loss  had  de 
prived  her  of  her  own  hopes  of  maternity. 

Oh !  it  was  well  for  her  then  that  she  had  loving  arms  to 
receive  her,  and  a  loving  heart  to  recline  her  weary  head  on,  or 
else  her  desolate  heart  might  have  broken.  And  in  that  rude 
severing  from  the  one  being  whom  she  had  had  to  love  her  and 
to  love  for  so  many  years,  how  near  she  drew  to  her  husband  ! 
How  it  developed  the  clinging  qualities  of  the  woman  in  her, 
and  made  her  feel  as  though  there  were  no  safety,  no  hope  for 
her,  save  in  his  protecting  arm  ! 


122      -  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

TEN  days  after  her  mother's  interment,  Naomi,  in  company  with 
her  husband,  arrived  in  New  York,  and  took  possession  of  her 
new  home.  It  was  a  small  but  very  beautiful  modern  house,  in 
a  delightful  part  of  the  city.  Gaspar,  who  possessed  refined 
taste,  had  caused  it  to  be  furnished,  not  extravagantly,  his 
means  did  not  admit  of  that,  but  yet  with  every  comfort,  and 
also  a  certain  degree  of  elegance.  Naomi  had  been  in  the  house 
for  days  before  she  noticed  any  of  its  arrangements.  Apatheti 
cally  indifferent,  or  agitated  by  bitter  bursts  of  grief,  it  was  a 
long  time  before  her  mind  resumed  its  healthful  tone.  Yet,  as 
it  eventually  must,  when  sorrow  does  not  break  the  heart,  calm 
ness  came  at  last.  The  past  receded,  the  present  became  more 
real.  Then  it  was  that  she  began  to  pass  her  days  in  the  little 
library  on  the  first  floor,  endeavoring  to  concentrate  her  wan 
dering  thoughts  and  amuse  herself  during  Gaspar's  absence  in 
reading,  studying,  and  translating. 

Sorrow  had,  for  the  time  at  least,  changed  Naomi ;  not  less 
proud  than  of  yore,  for  pride  and  unconscious  strength  enve 
loped  her  like  a  mantle,  but  yet  less  ruled  by  these  qualities, 
more  dependent,  and,  above  all,  more  alive  to  tenderness.  Her 
exquisite  figure  was  a  little  worn  with  grief,  and  her  face  paler, 
thinner,  but  far  more  developed  in  expression. 

After  the  long,  lonely  day,  how  grateful  was  the  sight  of 
Gaspar  coming  home;  how  tender  her  glad  welcome  at  the 
door;  home,  to  chat  smilingly  across  the  dinner-table;  home, 
to  wander  out  to  walk  the  long  summer  evenings  ;  home,  to  sit 
beside  the  winter  fire  and  read  to  him  ;  while  he,  drawing  near, 
would  gently  clasp  her  hand  and  lean  his  head  upon  her  shoul 
der.  In  the  many  tranquil  hours  that  they  spent  thus,  Naomi's 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A   WOMAN.  123 

affection  for  her  husband  was  ever  on  the  increase.  It  was 
not,  it  could  not  be,  a  perfect  feeling  even  of  its  kind,  for  intel 
lectually  she  was  far  his  superior,  and  a  woman  must  find  at 
least  an  equal  in  the  man  she  loves ;  but  it  was  a  growing  at 
tachment,  strengthened  by  the  tie  that  bound  them,  by  habit, 
and  even  by  a  vague,  haunting  sense  of  something  false  and 
wrong  in  their  relations. 

It  was  one  evening  when  sitting  cozily  by  the  cheerful  grate- 
fire  in  the  library  (Naomi's  favorite  room),  the  gas  lowered,  and 
shaded  so  as  to  fall  directly  on  the  round  study-table,  that 
Naomi  was  reading  aloud,  and  glancing  quickly  at  Gaspar  from 
the  book  with  some  gay  comment,  she  saw  that  he  was  soundly 
sleeping,  with  his  head  on  the  back  of  his  arm-chair.  Naomi 
let  her  book  fall  into  her  lap,  and,  silently  contemplating  him, 
fell  into  a  sad  reverie.  Such  a  sudden  realization  of  her  loneli 
ness  'of  soul  as  came  over  her  as  she  looked  at  his  cheerful, 
handsome  face,  and  thought  how  impossible  it  would  have  been 
for  her  to  fall  asleep  under  similar  circumstances  !  Fall  asleep  • 
unfatigued,  from  simple  weariness  and  indifference,  when  you 
are  beside  the  one  you  love,  and  listening  to  the  thoughts,  at 
once  brilliant  and  profound,  of  genius !  She  recalled  the  apa 
thetic  way  in  which  Gaspar  generally  listened  to  her,  the  half- 
closed  eyes,  the  reclining  attitude,  which  she  had  ever  striven  to 
think  were  but  the  physical  abandon  of  intellectual  pre-occupa- 
tion.  He  had  tried  to  seem  interested  to  please  her,  had  re 
sponded  to  her  smile,  assented  to  her  comments' ;  and  the  sound 
of  her  voice  had  doubtless  soothed  him,  and  prevented  listening 
from  being  irksome  to  him. 

He  still  slept  soundly.  Naomi  leaned  over,  and  lowered  the 
gas  to  the  smallest  possible  flame,  yet  the  room  was  not  obscure; 
for  the  bright  blaze  of  the  Liverpool  coal  lit  up  the  bright  colors 
in  the  carpet  and  curtains,  and  danced  merrily  over  the  book 
shelves. 

"  If  here,  in  this  soft,  poetic  light,"  Naomi  thought,  as  she 
watched  it,  "  were  sitting  two  beings,  whose  souls  were  bound 


124  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

together  by  the  closest  affinity,  and  whose  hearts  responded  to 
each  other  with  all  the  power  of  passion  of  which  their  natures 
were  capable,  how  sweet  would  be  this  half  obscurity  !  how  elo 
quent  the  silence  of  the  night !  And  if,  as  I  have,  they  had 
been  reading  of  two  who  loved  as  well,  but  not  as  happily, 
with  what  great  swelling  hearts  would  they  turn  to  look  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  realize  their  infinitude  of  bliss." 
*  Though  Naomi,  in  the  loyalty  of  her  nature,  had  not  dared  to 
connect  herself,  even  mentally,  with  this  thought,  yet  the  con 
sciousness  that,  somewhere  down  in  the  great  unfathomed  depths 
of  being,  she  had  in  reality  meant  herself,  oppressed  her  with  a 
sudden  sense  of  remorse.  "  He  loves  me,"  she  murmured,  self 
reproachingly  and  half  aloud,  striving  to  emerge  from  the  cold 
shadow  that  had  fallen  so  freezingly  over  her.  "  He  is  kind  and 
gentle ;  I  am  his,  since  I  am  essential  to  his  happiness." 

It  was  ten  o'clock ;  she  gently  touched  and  called  him,*  He 
started  up,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  looking  confusedly  around. 

"  Why,  really,  I  have  been  asleep,"  he  said.  "  What  time  is 
it?" 

"  Ten." 

"Ten!  Let  me  see;  where  did  we  leave  our  book?  Oh,  I 
remember ;  our  poor  lovers  were  getting  into  a  sad  scrape.  Well, 
we  will  see  to-morrow  night  what  becomes  of  them." 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  125 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

GASPAR  had  always  led  a  retired  life,  for  which  his  quiet  nature 
and  methodical  habits  best  suited  him.  He  had  had  to  struggle 
hard  to  attain  a  position  of  independence  in  his  profession,  and 
this  had  left  him  little  time  for  general  society.  His  acquaint 
ance  was  limited  to  two  or  three  well-bred  families  whose  station 
and  circumstances  assimilated  to  his  own.  They  had  called  on 
Naomi  shortly  after  her  arrival  in  the  city,  but  she  was  in  no 
fitting  frame  of  mind,  then,  to  visit  or  be  visited ;  and  it  was 
not  until  the  year  had  rolled  around  again  to  spring,  that  Naomi, 
finding  that  very  many  hours  lagged  themselves  wearily  away, 
determined  to  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  these  families. 

The  three  visits  were  made  in  one  morning.  Naomi  found 
the  two  first  so  commonplace  and  monotonous,  that  it  was 
wearied,  stupified,  and  half-inclined  to  turn  her  steps  homeward, 
that  she  reached  Mrs.  Wane's  house.  It  was  very  unpretentious 
in  appearance,  yet  the  aspect  of  the  drawing-room  indicated 
taste  and  refinement.  There  were  books  and  music,  and  some 
pretty  paintings  on  the  walls.  Naomi  was  still  looking  musingly 
around  her,  when  a  light  step  came  through  the  hall,  and  Mrs. 
Wane  entered.  She  welcomed  her  visit  very  cordially,  and 
entered  at  once  into  a  familiar,  almost  confidential  conversation. 
She  was  about  twenty -seven ;  tall,  but  well  formed  ;  her  features 
moderately  regular ;  and  complexion  fair,  with  black  hair  and 
grey  eyes.  Her  appearance,  manner,  and  conversation  convey 
ed  to  Naomi  the  idea  of  a  mind  not  highly  intellectual,  but  yet 
intelligent  and  refined,  and  an  amiable  and  affectionate  disposi 
tion.  No  tinge  of  melancholy  announced  great  depths  of  feel 
ing  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  pervaded  by  an  air  of  smiling, 
unconscious  philosophy,  which  is  not  produced  by  any  effort  of 


126  NAOMI  TORRENTS: 

the  will,  but  is  simply  the  result  of  an  incapacity  for  great 
emotions. 

Naomi  was  pleased  with  her ;  and,  rising  to  go,  reciprocated 
very  cordially  Mrs.  Wane's  wish  that  they  might  become  very 
intimate  friends.  The  acquaintance  did  soon  ripen  into  inti 
macy;  and  though  there  was  not  between  Naomi  and  Mrs. 
Wane  sufficient  congeniality  to  engender  love,  yet  there  was  in 
reality  something  more  nearly  akin  to  friendship  than  is  usually 
found  between  young  and  pretty  women  in  society. 

In  Naomi's  home  the  days  rolled  their  silent  and  monotonous 
course  along.  Naomi  strove  to  hide  it  from  herself;  and  rind 
ing  that  this  might  not  be,  attributed  it  to  everything  but  the 
right  cause ;  but  the  ever-present,  inexorable  fact  would  not  be 
ignored ;  her  life  was  cold  and  desolate,  as  a  shrine  put  up  for 
holy  fires  to  burn  upon,  but  deserted  when  the  first  feeble  flame 
has  flickered  out.  But  she  roused  and  battled  bravely  with 
these  feelings.  Often,  when  by  Gaspar's  side,  she  felt  this  strange, 
this  aching  void,  she  would  steal  to  him,  and,  kneeling,  wind  her 
arms  about  him.  Oh,  how  she  longed  in  such  moments  to  lay 
her  soul  bare  to  him  ;  to  find  rest  in  his  strength  ;  to  have  him 
comprehend  and  counsel  her  !  But,  alas  !  there  had  never  been 
any  soul-communion  here  ;  there  could  be  none.  She  had  such 
an  infinitude  of  thoughts  that  he  could  not  divine,  such  great 
heart-yearnings  with  which  he  had  no  sympathy.  If  he  was 
busy  when  she  approached  him  thus,  he  would  kindly  pat  and 
kiss  her  cheek,  and  gently  put  her  aside ;  if  not,  he  would  hold 
her  to  him,  resting  his  head  upon  hers — quietly  content — or 
perhaps,  as  Naomi  would  sometimes  think  bitterly,  quietly 
indifferent.  . 

Again  and  again  the  old  experience  renewed;  the  old, 
silent,  resigned,  falling  back  upon  herself;  the  old  gathering 
herself  up  for  a  new  effort,  for  every  step  in  this  barren  life  was 
an  effort. 

There  was  but  one  consolation  for  her — she  made  her  husband 
happy.  He  was  dear  to  her;  yes,  strange,  incongruous  as  it 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  127 

may  seem,  he  was  dear  to  her.  She  could  not  banish,  but  she 
could  hide  these  yearnings.  She  must  learn  to  be  satisfied  with 
what  he  had  to  give.  Looking  around  for  something  in  which 
to  interest  herself,  and  remembering  her  old  ardent  passion  for 
vocal  music,  she  immediately  obtained  a  piano,  and  a  professor 
to  instruct  her.  It  was  for  weeks  and  months  a  spell  of 
enchantment.  It  brought  back  all  her  old  enthusiasm ;  and  dim, 
far  away  in  the  immeasurable  distance  of  what  might  have  been, 
but  was  not,  and  never  could  be  now,  the  old  dreams  came  float 
ing  back,  as  rainbow-tinted  and  unsubstantial  as  the  sunset 
palaces  of  clouds  ;  and  0,  more  beautiful  in  their  unreality  than 
the  brightest  realization  can  ever  be ! 

Gaspar's  profession  had  always  kept  him  much  from  home 
during  the  day,  and  late  in  the  fall  of  the  second  year  of  their 
marriage  he  joined  a  club,  so  that  now  not  only  days,  but  many 
evenings,  were  passed  entirely  alone.  At  first  she  remonstrated, 
but  finding  that  Gaspar,  refusing  either  to  dispute  or  discuss, 
quietly  pursued  his  own  course,  she  sombrely  resigned  herself 
to  this  new  darkening  of  her  before  shadowed  life. 

In  the  lengthening  evenings,  listening  to  the  pattering  rain 
and  the  sighing  wind  that  strewed  the  ground  with  leaves, 
Naomi  paced  sometimes  her  bedroom,  sometimes  the  parlor 
floor,  and  thought.  As  a  girl,  she  had  felt  the  isolation  of  a 
woman's  life ;  as  a  married  woman,  she  had  realized  her  utter 
dependence  and  helplessness.  Naomi's  was  an  exceptional 
nature.  She  was  not  one  of  those  women  who  enter  a  husband's 
house  claiming  everything,  and  believing  that  everything  there 
belongs  more  to  them  than  to  him.  With  her  clear,  unswerv 
ing  ideas  of  equity,  Naomi  could  never  come  to  feel  her  right, 
and  consequently  the  sense  of  dependence  was  to  her  a  con 
tinual  sense  of  humiliation.  Turning  her  eyes  abroad,  she 
everywhere  saw  woman  helpless  and  dependent,  not  from 
any  inherent  incapacity  to  help  and  sustain  herself,  but  from 
the  laws  of  society.  Everywhere  oppressed  by  the  injustice 
of  man — everywhere,  in  one  word,  enslaved — for  chains  are  none 


128  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

the  less  chains  because  they  be  of  gold  and  wreathed  with 
flowers. 

If  any  of  the  innumerable  misfortunes  of  life,  which  no  one 
has  taken  into  account  in  framing  laws  for  her  government, 
throw  her  upon  the  world  deprived  of  man's  protection,  she 
must  struggle  then  for  subsistence  against  all  the  odds  of  such  a 
position ;  and  she,  the  weaker  sex,  must  encounter  and  vanquish 
all  the  temptations  that  come  to  her  in  the  guise  of  love,  or  in 
the  form  of  gold  to  relieve  her  wants — encounter  and  vanquish, 
for  if  she  fall,  the  brand  of  indelible  shame  is  for  her  brow, 
and  the  crown  of  a  new  triumph  for  the  head. of  her  seducer. 
What  is  there  for  the  single  woman,  who  possesses  neither  means 
nor  position,  but  a  life  of  ill-requited  toil  in  some  one  of  the 
few  avenues  of  industry  left  open  to  her — solitude,  or  tempta 
tion  and  oftentimes  the  innocent  loss  of  her  good  name? 
"What  is  there  for  the  married  woman  who  does  not  find  in  her 
husband  a  soul  just  and  elevated  enough  to  rise  superior  to 
man's  laws  and  man's  opinions  ? 

Thus  pondered  Naomi,  with  that  proud  indignation  that  a 
sense  of  wrong  and  inj  ustice  always  produces  in  noble  minds ; 
but,  superior  to  her  sex  in  greatness  of  thought  and  purity  of 
sentiment,  she  did  not  reflect  that  it  is  women  themselves, 
with  their  frivolity,  their  mean  and  petty  rivalries,  and  their 
uncompromising  intolerance  towards  one  another,  who  are  the 
greatest  enemies  of  anything  like  the  advancement  of  woman's 
position. 

Has  a  sister  erred — whose  voice  is  loudest  in  her  condemna 
tion  ;  who  most  unpityingly,  most  unpardoningly  applauds  her 
ruthless  outcastment,  while,  with  insensate  blindness,  she  wel 
comes  with  smiles  the  sharer  of  the  sin,  who  in  the  majority  of 
instances  is  the  greater  sinner  of  the  two  ?  Who  is  it  that  most 
sneers  at  the  idea  of  woman  being  independent — free  to  live 
single  and  sustain  herself  honorably,  if  fate  denies  her  the  man 
that  she  would  choose?  Who,  but  women  themselves — each 
one  unconscious  that  every  time  she  lifts  her  voice  for  such  a 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  129 

purpose  she  tightens  the  fetters  that  bind  her  own  hands  ?  This 
is  true  of  the  majority  ;  but,  thank  Heaven  !  there  are  a  handful 
of  women,  every  day  becoming  larger,  that  are  juster,  wiser, 
nobler. 

The  gall  and  wormwood  of  the  unshared  thoughts  of  these 
solitary  hours,  and  the  contemplation  of  the  future,  stretching 
before  her  as  sterile  as  a  Siberian  waste,  were  not  calculated  to 
fan  into  a  more  ardent  .flame  Naomi's  affection  for  her  husband. 
If  he  had  grown  more  tender  and  devoted,  gratitude  and  gene 
rosity  would  have  bound  Naomi  to  him  with  indissoluble  bonds; 
but  she  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  to  herself,  at  last,  astonished 
at  the  pang  it  cost  her  to  do  so,  that  Gaspar  had  become 
strangely  indifferent  to  her  of  late.  Probably  he  was  himself 
unaware  of  any  such  alteration,  for  changes  in  sentiment  are  so 
gradual,  and  steal  over  us  so  naturally,  that  it  is  not  until  they 
reach  their  crisis  and  some  sudden  event  reveals  them  to  us,  that 

we  become  aware  of  them 

9 


130  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

IT  was  on  a  cold  night  in  December,  when  the  ground  was 
covered  with  snow,  that  Gaspar  and  Naomi  went  in  a  sleigh  to 
attend  a  little  musical  soiree  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Wane. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  Gaspar  had  gone  out  with  her,  and 
Naomi,  excited  by  the  prospect  of  a  pleasant  evening,  dressed 
for  the  occasion  with  more  than  usual  lightness  of  heart.  She 
wore  a  dress  of  white  tulle,  trimmed  with  black  velvet,  over 
white  silk;  no  ornaments,  save  bracelets  of  jet  and  gold,  and  a 
little  net  of  gold  wire,  with  ball  tassels  on  the  left  side,  covering 
the  back  of  her  head  and  leaving  quite  unadorned  the  bands  of 
dark  hair  that  shaded  her  face,  which  lit  up  so  beautifully  under 
the  influence  of  the  least  animation.  Something  which  occurred 
during  the  ride,  a  mere  trifle  in  itself,  but  one  of  those  trifles  so 
powerfully  eloquent  to  certain  minds,  had  banished  her  light- 
heartedness  and  saddened  her  face  when  they  arrived  at  Mrs. 
Wane's  door. 

In  his  usual  kind  and  almost  gentle  way,  for  he  was  ex. 
tremely  amiable,  Gaspar  handed  Naomi  into  the  sleigh,  took 
his  place  beside  her,  and  they  started.  The  night  was  very 
cold ;  Naomi's  cloak,  thrown  on  in  haste,  was  badly  arranged, 
the  buffalo  robe  had  slipped  from  behind  her  in  sitting  down, 
and  her  feet  were  quite  unprotected,  yet  Gaspar  took  no 
notice.  As  he'  drove,  he  took  the  reins  in  his  left  hand,  and 
drawing  off  the  glove  of  his  right,  buttoned  his  overcoat 
more  tightly  around  his  throat,  then  drew  on  his  glove  again, 
chatting  all  the  while  in  a  lively,  .happy  way.  There  had 
been  no  look  of  admiration  for  the  pretty  toilette ;  there  was 
no  word  of  interest  in  her  comfort  now.  And  what  most 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  131 

sharply  cut  Naomi  was  the  air  of  unconsciousness  that  accom 
panied  this  inattention.  If  he  had  been  vexed  or  pre-occupied, 
that  would  have  been  a  reason,  or  at  least  an  explanation ;  but 
there  was  nothing  of  the  kind  here :  it  was  the  purely  natu 
ral  forgetfulness  of  one  who  is  too  little  interested  to  remem 
ber;  it  was,  in  one  word,  the  dreariest,  deadest  of  all  senti 
ments — indifference. 

A  low  murmur  of  admiration  announced  Naomi's  entrance 
into  Mrs.  "Wane's  drawing-room.  The  cloud  upon  her  brow, 
and  the  slight  bitter  curve  of  her  lip,  added  something 
still  more  striking  and  original  to  her  beauty,  at  all  times 
unique. 

Mrs.  "Wane  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  in  the  full 
light  of  the  chandelier,  surrounded  by  a  little  group  of  guests. 
Naomi  and  Gaspar  advanced  towards  her,  and,  after  the  usual 
salutations,  were  turning  away,  when  their  hostess  said,  indicating 
with  a  slight  gesture  a  lady  by  her  side : 

"  Mrs.  Lindabel,  my  sister,  Mrs.  Ma}Tance." 

Naomi  bowed,  struck  by  the  lady's  exceeding  prettiness. 
She  was  some  two  or  three  years  younger  than  her  sister,  shorter 
too,  but  with  a  figure  of  voluptuous  fulness.  Her  hair  was 
brown,  her  eyes  blue.  Naomi  regarded  her  with  mingled  admi 
ration  and  repulsion.  The  eyes  were  soft,  the  rosy  face  dim 
pling  with  smiles ;  but  there  was  little  of  noble  or  elevated  there. 
Naomi  seldom  or  never  realized  the  necessity  or  the  possibility 
of  addressing  a  word  to  a  person  with  whom  she  was  not  in 
some  degree  pleased,  and  this  time  the  sense  of  repulsion  was 
so  absolute  that  she  passed  on  with  the  simplest  inclination  of 
her  head.  A  step  or  two  in  advance,  she  found  herself  face  to 
face  with  an  old  retired  Italian  professor  of  music,  whom  she 
had  met  before  at  Mrs.  Wane's,  and  who  now  smilingly  accosted 
her : 

"Signora  Cantatrice,  how  goes  the  music?  Will  you  sing 
for  us  to-night?" 

"  Ah !    Signor  Paulini,"  Naomi   answered,    "  for  you,  who 


132  NAOMI  TOBRENTE: 

know  so  well  the  capabilities  of  music,  my  poor  voice- would  be 
but  little  entertainment." 

"You  are  too  modest,  Signora.  Your  voice  is  beautiful. 
You  have  expression,  too,  which  is  rare  to  find  in  you  American 
women." 

"  Are  we  all  so  cold  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that.  I  think  you  are  afraid  to  feel,  and 
ashamed  to  show  it  when  you  do  feel.  But  we  must  have  ex 
pression  in  music — without  this  it  is  worth  nothing.  There 
is  a  young  gentleman  going  to  sing;  will  you  go  to  the 
piano  ?" 

Naomi  glanced  round  in  search  of  Graspar,  and  seeing  that  he 
was  standing  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Lindabel,  talking  to  her,  and 
talking  really  with  a  great  deal  of  animation,  she  accepted  the 
professor's  arm  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  piano.  Several  peo 
ple  sang,  and  at  last  Naomi,  yielding  to  many  persuasions. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  smiling  applause  when  she  finished, 
and  the  old  professor  was  delighted. 

"  Ah  !  Mrs.  Mayance,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  you,  who  look  so 
Italian,  who  have  an  Italian  voice,  and  an  Italian  heart,  too,  I 
think,  had  not  been  born  in  Italy !  Then  you  would  have  been 
a  great  cantatrice." 

Naomi  listened  to  these  words  with  a  kindling  light  in  her 
great  dark  eyes  and  a  dreamy  smile  upon  her  lips.  Oh,  would 
that  it  had  been  so  !  Would  that  she  might  have  given  herself 
to  art,  heart  and  soul !  Constantly  surrounded,  and  pressed 
again  and  again  to  sing,  Naomi's  eyes  nevertheless  wandered 
around  the  room  every  few  minutes  in  search  of  Gaspar.  He 
was  sometimes  dancing  with  Mrs.  Lindabel,  sometimes  prome 
nading  with  her,  or  else  standing  quite  near  her,  talking  to  some 
one  else,  but  looking  at  her. 

Watching  from  an  extreme  end  of  the  large  drawing-room, 
Naomi  saw  all  this  at  a  glance ;  for,  though  naturally  indifferent 
and  unobservant,  once  interested  and  aroused,  she  had  that 
eagle-eyed  penetration  that  nothing  can  baifle  or  escape. 


THE  HISTOKY  OF  A  WOMAN.  133 

She  was  not  so  absurdly  exacting  as  to  expect,  or  even  wish, 
that  Gaspar  should  be  by  her  side,  no  one  comprehending  better 
than  she  the  bad  taste  of  public  manifestations  of  feeling. 
Neither  would  it  have  displeased  her  to  see  him  talking  to  a 
pretty  woman,  if  for  one  moment  she  could  have  seen  his 
eyes  seek  her,  and  with  one  rapid,  magnetic  look,  unobserved 
by  all  else,  assure  her  that  she  was  not  forgotten.  But  there 
was  no  such  seeking,  no  such  look.  Gaspar  was,  for  the  time 
being,  seemingly  unconscious  of  her  existence. 

She  pondered  on  all  this,  listening  to  the  gay  words  of 
those  about  her,  replying  gaily,  too,  with  a  smile  upon  her 
lips,  but  no  smile  in  the  frozen  depths  of  her  eyes. 

She  was  wearied  early,  and  longed  to  go  home ;  but  she 
would  wait  his  time ;  he  should  not  think  that  she  wished  to 
hurry  him  away  from  society  that  he  evidently  found  so  at 
tractive. 

At  twelve  she  saw  him  separate  himself  from  a  group  and 
come  towards  her.  He  sat  down  by  her  and  said,  very  kindly 
indeed,  but  yet  with  an  abstracted  air  : 

"  Have  you  enjoyed  the  evening,  Naomi  ?  Are  you  tired  ? 
Would  you  like  to  go?" 

Yes,  she  had  enjoyed  the  evening  very  much.  She  was  tired, 
and  she  would  like  to  go. 

They  took  leave  of  their  hostess  and  entered  their  sleigh. 
Naomi,  coming  suddenly  from  the  heated  rooms  into  the  pene 
trating  outer  air,  shivered  involuntarily  as  she  took  her  seat. 
Gaspar,  who  had  gathered  up  the  reins  preparatory  to  starting, 
noticed  it,  and,  letting  them  fall,  turned  quickly  to  her : 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  think  I  You  are  cold,  Naomi.  Let  me  wrap 
you  up  in  this  robe." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  as  icy  and  piercing  as  the 
wind  that  circled  round  them.  "I  do  not  need  any  assistance. 
I  can  attend  to  myself." 

"  Don't  be  childishly  vexed.  I  did  not  notice  it  at  first.  I 
tell  you  I  forgot  it." 


134  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 

"  I  know  that  you  forgot  it.  I  am  not  vexed,  but  I  do  not 
need  any  assistance." 

So,  in  silence  they  reached  home,  and  Gaspar,  with  unruffled 
tranquillity,  went  to  rest ;  but  Naomi  sat  for  hours  with  her  head 
bowed  upon  her  hand,  lost  in  sombre  thought. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  135 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

i 
IT  was  not  a  spirit  of  exaction  or  exaggerated  sensitiveness  that 

led  Naomi  to  attach  so  much  importance  to  things  that  were 
mere  trifles  in  themselves,  but  which,  in  the  innocent  naturalness 
of  manner  that  accompanied  them,  had  for  the  first  time  sug 
gested  to  her  the  possibility  of  Gaspar  having  ceased  to  love 
her.  Having  ceased  to  love  her,  she  thought ;  but  it  may  be  ques 
tioned  whether  he  had  ever  really  loved  her.  He  had  desired 
her  beauty,  but  he  had  never  had  any  just  conception  or  appre 
ciation  of  her  mind  or  character.  She  was  a  sealed  book  to  him. 
There  had  never  been  between  them  one  particle  of  that  beauti 
ful,  mysterious  sympathy  that  enables  people  to  understand  each 
other  without  long  and  intimate  communion,  and  to  converse 
almost  as  it  were  with  thoughts  without  the  interchange  of  words. 
It  was  an  unconscious  fault.  He  had  deceived  himself,  as  many 
men,  and  women,  too,  so  often  do.  Passion  had  evanesced,  and 
lo !  there  was  nothing  beneath  it  but  the  sense  of  obligation — 
that  cold,  outward  form  and  semblance  of  something  which  has 
no  real  life.  Yet  Gaspar  was  not  definitely  conscious  of  this ; 
he  was  not  one  to  endeavor  to  analyze  to  himself  his  interior 
life ;  and  besides,  the  change  within  him  had  been  so  gradual,  so 
insensible,  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  know  exactly  where 
he  was.  He  was  considerate  towards  his  wife  in  tone  and  man 
ner  ;  he  surrounded  her  with  every  comfort,  nay,  every  luxury, 
that  his  means  would  permit ;  he  conceded  her  all  the  liberty 
she  could  possibly  wish ;  and  if  he  preferred  to  pass  his  even 
ings  at  his  club  instead  of  in  her  society,  why  certainly  that 
was  no  cause  for  complaint.  She  had  equal  opportunities  of 
amusing  herself. 


136  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 

Gaspar  was  not  an  unprincipled  man  ;  lie  would  not  wilfully 
have  faltered  in  anything  that  he  believed  to  be  his  duty,  but, 
unfortunately,  he  believed  that  fidelity  and  kindness,  in  the 
most  literal  sense  of  the  words,  were  all  she  had  a  right  to 
demand  from  him.  Thus,  when,  the  day  after  the  soiree,  he 
found  himself  recalling  the  voluptuous  outlines  of  Mrs.  Linda- 
bel's  figure,  dreaming  of  her  languid  glances,  and  endeavoring 
to  find  some  pretext  for  visiting  Mrs.  Wane's  that  evening,  he 
took  himself  severely  to  task  for  such  thoughts.  •"  Come,  come, 
Mr.  Gaspar  Mayance,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  no  more  of  this. 
You  are  a  married  man,  sir,  and  Mrs.  Lindabel  is  by  far  too 
pretty  for  you  to  see  her  often."  After  this  he  wandered  back 
to  his  first  train  of  thought,  and  wondered  whether  she  were 
a  widow,  or  divorced,  or  were  living  with  her  husband ; 
and  so,  continually  dismissing  her  from  his  thoughts  for  the 
last  time,  went  on  thinking  of  her  for  the  better  part  of  the 
day. 

A  few  days  after,  Naomi  went  to  make  Mrs.  Lindabel  a  cere 
monious  call.  Two  motives  impelled  her  to  this  step,  distasteful 
as  it  was  to  her ;  pride,  in  not  allowing  Gaspar  to  think,  in  not 
even  permitting  herself  to  believe,  that  she  could  be  jealous  of 
her  husband's  attentions  to  Mrs.  Lindabel,  and  respect  and  con 
sideration  for  Mrs.  Wane. 

She  inquired  for  the  ladies,  mentally  praying  that  Mrs.  Linda 
bel  might  be  from  home.  Her  prayer,  however,  was  quite  in 
vain ;  both  ladies  were  at  home  and  in  the  parlor. 

Yes,  truly ;  there  was  Mrs.  Lindabel  in  a  rose-colored  dressing 
gown,  embroidered  slippers,  and  hair  a  la  Eugenie,  looking  very 
charming.  Mrs.  Wane  was  really  very  glad  to  see  Naomi ;  her 
sister  was  affable,  with  that  empty  affability  which  Naomi  per- 
fecly  understood — for  there  most  assuredly  is  an  electric  some 
thing  more  expressive,  more  convincing  than  words,  or  looks, 
or  manner,  by  which  we  feel,  if  not  completely,  at  least  to  a 
great  degree,  what  are  people's  real  sentiments  towards  us, 
and  make  our  own  felt  in  return.  Naomi  gathered  from  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF   A   WOMAN.  137 

conversation  that  Mrs.  Lindabel's  husband  had  gone  South 
on  business  to  pass  the  winter,  and  that  the  lady,  feeling 
somewhat  lonely  in  Philadelphia,  her  established  home,  had 
come  to  pass  some  time  with  her  sister. 

Naomi,  after  a  short  call,  went  through  with  the  required 
formalities,  and  took  her  leave. 

But  three  or  four  days  had  elapsed,  when*  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"Wane,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Lindabel,  called  on  Naomi,  just  at 
the  verge  of  evening,  on  their  way  to  the  theatre.  They  had 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  staying  any  longer  than  merely  to 
say,  "  How  do  you  do;"  but  Gaspar,  who  had  not  yet  gone  out 
for  the  evening,  seconded  Naomi's  polite  invitations  to  spend 
the  evening,  by  such  warm  solicitations,  that  the  ladies  yielded 
at  last,  and  laid  aside  bonnets  and  cloaks,  and  concluded  to 
spend  a  social  hour. 

There  were  cards,  and  music,  and  conversation ;  Naomi, 
laughing  over  the  card-table,  admiring  the  music,  or  listen 
ing,  as  though  entirely  absorbed,  to  Mrs.  Wane — who  was 
extremely  fond  of  talking — did  not  lose  a  look  or  gesture 
of  Gaspar.  There  was  nothing  sufficiently  marked  in  his 
attentions  to  attract  the  notice  of  any  one  else ;  but  for 
Naomi  there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  the  furtive  glances 
and  in  the  conscious  guarded  manner.  Yet,  whatever  inward 
effect  this  produced  upon  Naomi,  there  were,  to  the  casual 
observer,  no  outward  signs.  Calm  and  smiling,  she  moved 
about  with  her  aerial  yet  stately  grace,  and  bade  a  polite  good 
night  to  all. 

Alone  with  his  wife,  Gaspar  seemed  a  little  embarrassed,  and 
walked  about  the  room,  affecting  to  arrange  books  and  music, 
to  avoid  meeting  her  eyes.  She  stood  for  a  minute,  looking  out 
into  the  cold,  deserted  street,  lit  up  by  a  brilliant  moon,  and  on 
turning  round,  saw  Gaspar  pick  from  the  floor,  at  the  foot  of  the 
chair  where  Mrs.  Lindabel  had  sat,  the  rose  she  had  worn  in  her 
bosom. 

"A  pretty  rose,"  he  said,  "  'tis  a  pity  she  lost  it ;"  and  he  laid 


138  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

it  carefully  on  the  mantel-piece.  Naomi  slowly  approached  : 
"  It  will  only  wither  there,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  a  little  husky  ; 
"  it  is  better  to  dispose  of  it  at  once ;"  and,  taking  it  up  for  one 
moment,  she  crushed  the  frail  leaves  in  her  hand  with  an  iron 
grasp ;  and  then,  with  a  contemptuous  smile,  tossed  them  into 
the  flames. 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  139 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

IT  was  through  long  months  of  pain  and  humiliation,  while 
watching  her  husband's  ever-increasing  indifference  to  herself 
and  growing  passion  for  another,  that  Naomi  arrived  at  last  at 
the  conviction  that  he  had  not  wandered  from  her  as  men  so 
often  do  even  from  the  women  they  best  love,  but  that  she  had 
in  reality  no  hold  whatever  on  his  affections.  Wounded, 
galled,  wretched  as  such  knowledge  made  her,  it  did  not  strike 
at  the  deepest,  truest,  holiest  love  of  her  life,  as  this  fatal  experi 
ence  does  in  the  lives  of  many  miserable  women.  Naomi's 
affection  for  her  husband  had  never  been  an  independent  senti 
ment,  but  grounded  entirely  on  his  feeling  for  her,  it  very 
naturally  died  with  that  which  had  not  only  given,  but  sustain 
ed  its  life.  She  suffered,  but  it  was  from  outraged  pride,  an 
indignant  sense  of  his  ingratitude,  and  the  appalling  solitude  of 
heart  and  position,  that  left  her  homeless,  friendless,  almost 
hopeless. 

Was  this  to  go  on  so  for  ever?  Was  she  to  live  in  that  house, 
unloving  and  unloved,  a  humiliation  to  herself,  a  burden  and 
constraint  to  him?  Could  all  the  laws  of  legislators,  all  the 
benedictions  of  religion,  make  anything  useful  or  holy  proceed 
from  such  relations  ?  Had  Naomi  been  like  other  women,  very 
differently  would  she  have  reasoned.  "  I  am  his  wife,"  would 
she  have  said  to  herself,  "  and  it  is  my  right  to  be  supported  by 
him.  He  does  not  love  me ;  well,  let  him  amuse  himself,  and 
so  will  I  myself."  But  for  Naomi  such  arguments  could  have 
no  weight.  His  wife !  She  shrank  from  the  degradation  of  a 
wifehood  where  all,  save  materialism,  had  died.  Her  right  to 
be  supported !  What  right  had  she,  unless  she  were  in  very 


140  NAOMI  TOERENTE  : 

truth  the  half  of  his  life,  whose  place  none  other  could  supply  ? 
Amuse  herself!  No.  While  she  bore  his  name  she  would 
respect  it ;  while  she  lived  beneath  his  roof,  not  only  should  no 
act  of  hers  dishonor  him,  but  no  levity  of  conduct  should  cast 
the  slightest  shadow  of  contempt  upon  him. 

But  this  could  not  last ;  her  life  could  not  be  one  long,  useless 
sacrifice.  But  she  would  not  act  from  any  rash  impulse.  She 
would  reflect  well  on  what  she  did,  so  that  when  it  should  be 
too  late  for  recall  it  might  not  linger  in  her  memory  as  an  ever 
lasting  regret.  She  would  speak  to  Gaspar  with  loyal  frankness. 
She  would  penetrate  to  the  depths  of  his  heart,  and  see  if  indeed 
there  was  any  feeling  there  for  her  that  rendered  her  presence 
in  his  home  necessary  to  his  happiness. 

Once  definitely  decided  upon  a  plan  of  action,  there  was  no 
vacillation  or  temporizing  possible  in  a  person  of  Naomi's  nature. 
On  the  evening  of  the  very  day  that  she  arrived  at  this  deter 
mination,  she  resolved  to  put  it  into  execution. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  141 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

IT  was  a  June  night,  warm,  but  refreshed  by  a  gentle  breeze. 
Naomi,  too  much  pre-occupied  by  intense  and  painful  thought 
to  concentrate  her  attention  on  any  external  thing,  had  passed 
the  day  in  almost  entire  idleness,  and  dined  in  abstracted  silence, 
deferring  the  hour  of  the  decisive  interview  till  Gaspar's  return 
at  mght. 

Unable  to  rest  anywhere,  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  dread  and 
anxiety,  which  she  cannot  avoid  feeling,  though  she  will  not 
allow  it  to  influence  her,  she  wanders  down  to  the  library  as 
the  evening  wears  on,  lights  the  gas,  and  sits  down  with  a  book 
in  her  hand  to  await  her  husband's  return,  knowing  that  he 
always  enters  here  for  a  few  minutes  to  arrange  his  law  papers 
for  the  next  day  before  going  up-stairs. 

Naomi  wears  a  white  neglige" ;  her  hair,  arranged  in  its  usual 
simple  fashion,  is  pushed  off  her  brow,  as  though  even  that  light 
weight  oppressed  her.  She  rarely  ever  has  color,  but  her  face 
cannot  be  called  colorless  to-night — it  is  ashy,  and  there  are 
great  dark  circles  around  her  eyes,  that  tend  to  increase  the 
apparent  size  of  those  large,  melancholy  orbs.  She  tries  to 
read ;  goes  faithfully  down  the  page,  beginning  at  the  first  and 
ending  at  the  last  word  ;  turns  the  leaf,  and  so  on  down  again. 
Then  she  pauses.  What  is  it  that  she  has  read  ?  Not  one  idea 
in  connection  with  it  has  passed  through  her  brain.  Impossible 
to  read ;  she  throws  the  book  aside,  rises,  and  goes  to  the  win 
dow.  The  cool  night  air  blows  refreshingly  upon  her  heated 
brow.  The  night  is  clear,  but  moonless ;  she  cannot  see  the 
passers-by,  but  she  can  hear  their  feet  upon  the  walk,  some 
slow  some  hurrying,  which  blending  with  the  roar  of  the  city 
muffled  by  distance,  sounds  like  the  murmur  of  the  great  wail- 


142  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

ing  ocean.  A  sense  of  desolation  creeps  shiveringly  over  her, 
and  she  seems  to  feel  herself  already  one  of  that  vast  pushing, 
jostling  crowd,  each  one,  regardless  of  the  others,  pressing  for 
ward  for  the  attainment  of  his  own  aims. 

Oh,  how  interminable  is  the  night !  What  an  eternity  is  each 
hour  between  the  striking  of  the  clocks!  She  walks  about, 
and  sits  down,  and  rises  again  ;  she  takes  down  books,  and  puts 
them  up ;  she  waits  and  listens  for  twelve.  It  rings  out  at  last, 
clear  and  full,  in  the  air  of  the  summer  night ;  but  it  is  some 
where  between  half  past  twelve  and  one,  when  Naomi  hears  the 
night-key  turn  in  the  lock,  and  a  moment  after,  Gaspar's  steps  in 
the  hall.  She  hears  this  with  a  pang  of  heart,  equal  to  a  physi 
cal  pain,  and  turns,  for  a  moment,  sick  and  faint.  Yet  she  sits 
there,  by  the  centre-table,  the  light  falling  full  on  her,  perfectly 
composed,  one  would  say,  if  it  were  not  for  that  ashen  face. 

The  back  of  the  chair  in  which  Naomi  sits  so  effectually 
conceals  her  from  view,  that  Gaspar  nearly  reaches  the  table 
before  he  perceives  her.  "When,  he  does,  he  stops  short  with 
astonishment,  and  says: 

"  "What !  you  up  so  late,  Naomi,  and  here,  too  ?  Is  anything 
the  matter  ?" 

It  is  a  minute  before  she  answers  ;  her  voice  has  died  away  in 
her  throat.  At  last  she  says,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone : 

"No;  nothing  is  the  matter,  but  there  is  something  that  I 
must  say  to  you  to-night,  ere  I  sleep." 

"Why,  it  is  late,"  he  says,  throwing  his  hat  upon  the  table, 
and  taking  a  seat  opposite  to  her,  "  and  I  am  tired ;  this  is 
a  singular  hour  to  select  for  a  conversation.  Is  it  something 
very  important  ?  Can't  it  be  deferred  till  to-morrow  ?" 

"  It  is  late,  I  know,  but  it  is  the  most  fitting  hour  for  what  I 
have  to  say — I  will  be  brief.  The  matter  can  be  summed 
up  in  a  few  words.  Gaspar,  I  am  a  most  unhappy  woman ; 
and  here,  to-night,  we  must  look  into  the  causes  of  this  unhap- 
piness ;  banish  it,  if  it  be  imaginary,  if  it  be  real,  endeavor  to 
seek  the  remedy." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  143 

"  Which  means,"  Gaspar  answers,  his  cheeks  slightly  flushed, 
and  a  little  emotion  quivering  in  his  voice,  "  that  you  are  jealous 
of  my  friendship  for  Mrs.  Lindabel." 

"  Call  things  by  their  right  name,"  she  says,  turning  full  upon 
him,  her  eyes  flashing  with  a  sudden  light,  and  her  voice  swell 
ing  to  its  usual  clear,  sonorous  tone,  "but  I  have  no  reproach  to 
make  you  with  regard  to  Mrs.  Lindabel,  whatever  your  senti 
ments  may  be  towards  her ;  for,  I  know  that  feelings  of  this 
nature  are  involuntary,  and  not  under  our  control,  though,  our 
actions  are,  and  in  this  respect,  I  must  do  you  the  justice  to  say, 
that  you  have  had  consideration  enough  not  to  utterly  outrage 
your  wife's  dignity.  I  esteem  the  principle  in  you,  but  I  do  not 
thank  you  for  it ;  the  formality  of  a  cold,  forced  fidelity  can  be 
of  no  value  to  me.  No  ;  what  I  wish  to  say,  is  quite  another 
thing.  Day  after  day,  for  months,  the  conviction  has  been  steal 
ing  over  me,  that  you  have  ceased  to  love  me ;  that,  in  very 
truth,  I  am  no  more  to  you  than  would  be  any  other  one  on  earth, 
to  whose  presence  habit  had  accustomed  you.  Is  this  so  ?  I  know 
that  you  are  truthful,  and  I  will  set  your  reply  before  my  own 
belief.  Answer  me,  upon  your  honor  and  conscience,  Gaspar 
— Is  this  so  ?" 

He  has  listened,  alternately  flushed  and  pale.  His  brow 
wears  a  heavy  frown  now,  and  his  eyes,  voice,  and  manner,  are 
full  of  anger,  as  he  answers  : 

"  The  idea  of  a  woman  putting  such  an  absurd  question  as 
that  to  her  husband.  You  know  well,  that  it  is  a  duty  for 
married  people  to  love  each  other,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it." 

u  I  have  not  spoken  of  duty,  but  of  feeling  ;  I  despise  with  all 
my  soul,  and  reject,  now  and  for  ever,  what  you  would  dignify 
with  the  name  of  love.  Answer  my  question  in  the  sense  in 
which  I  have  put  it  to  you." 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind;  I  should  become  equally 
ridiculous,  should  I  allow  myself  to  be  made  a  partner  to  any 
such  romantic  and  foolish  proceeding/' 

"  I  am  answered,"  she  says  slowly,  and  if  such  a  thing  could 


144  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

be,  her  blanched  face  grows  still  whiter.  "  You  are  conscientious ; 
you  will  not  lie  to  me.  Thank  you  for  that.  If  you  could, 
with  truth,  assure  me  of  your  love,  I  know,  that  under  present 
circumstances  (I  mean  the  coldness  that  has  grown  up  between 
us)  you  would  most  gladly  do  it.  It  is  enough ;  there  is  but  one 
thing  more  :  We  must  separate ;  you  take  your  way  in  peace, 
and  I  mine." 

"  A  separation  ?  A  scandal  for  the  'public  to  discuss  and 
delight  in?  Have  my  name  bandied  round  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  and  all  for  what  ?  A  caprice  of  my  romantic  wife,  who 
imagines  that  I  do  not  love  her.  You  must  be  mad  1" 

"  I  care  not  for  the  comments  of  your  public  ;  I  care  for  right, 
for  life,  for  happiness,  and  I  will  not  offer  them  up  on  the  altar 
of  your  pride,  nor  to  the  prejudices  of  the  world.  Continue  to 
live  a  dependent  on  the  sense  of  duty  of  an  indifferent  husband  ? 
Gaspar  Mayance,  you  little  know  Naomi  Torrente." 

Quite  unconsciously  she  calls  herself  by  her  old  name,  and  in 
the  haughty,  erect  head,  the  flashing  eyes,  and  quivering  scorn 
of  the  lip,  you  can  see  that  all  softening  tenderness  has  frozen 
within  her,  and  she  has  already,  morally,  regained  the  proud 
freedom  of  her  maidenhood. 

"I  have  no  more  to  say,"  he  says  resolutely,  taking  long 
strides  up  and  down  the  room.  "  I  shall  remain  here  to-night. 
It  is  time  to  put  an  end  to  this  conversation." 

She  rises  without  another  word,  and  sweeps  slowly  to  the 
door.  There,  with  her  hand  upon  the  knob,  she  pauses  for  a 
minute,  attentively  regarding  him,  as  though  she  would  weigh 
the  strength  of  his  determination,  and  her  own  power  of  will  to 
grapple  with  it ;  and  then  she  passes  from  his  sight,  and  the  door 
closes  after  her. 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  145 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

To  be  gone,  to  put  distance,  and  time,  and  oblivion  if  it  might 
be,  between  herself  and  Gaspar,  and  all  the  memories  of  her 
married  life,  this  was  the  feeling  that,  ever  growing  in  inten 
sity,  pursued  Naomi  night  and  day.  But  where  should  she  go, 
homeless,  friendless,  solitary  one  ?  Anywhere ;  to  toil,  to  suffer, 
it  mattered  not.  No  tie,  no,  not  one,  bound  her  to  existence  ; 
and  there  would  always  be,  for  everyone,  a  piece  of  ground 
large  enough  to  lie  down  and  die  on.  In  calmer  moments, 
though  not  less  firm  in  her  desperate  purpose,  for  she  would 
have  carried  it  out,  even  if  she  had  known  that  it  led  to  inevita 
ble  death,  she  revolved  in  her  mind  projects  for  the  future,  and 
vaguely  imagined  what  she  would  do,  and  what  her  experience 
would  be  when  out  upon  the  wide  world. 

As  a  dear  and  sacred  memento  of  her  mother,  Naomi  had 
brought  to  New  York  all  the  furniture  of  their  little  home,  and 
as  it  was  not  needed  for  use,  had  stored  it  in  an  unoccupied 
room.  This  she  now  secretly  disposed  .of  for  the  sum  of  one 
hundred  dollars.  This  was  all  her  capital ;  she  would  take 
nothing  of  her  husband's.  In  her  proud  scrupulousness,  she 
put  into  his  writing  desk  a  cheque  for  fifty  that  had  been  lying 
unused  in  her  purse  for  weeks. 

She  carefully  packed  her  wardrobe  ;  the  few  simple  orna 
ments  she  possessed,  and  her  books.  Then  all  was  ready — the 
crisis  of  her  destiny  had  arrived. 

Ten  days  had  passed  since  their  interview  in  the  library, 
since  which  they  had  exchanged  no  word ;  not  even  the  ordi 
nary  greetings.  Gaspar  had  slept  on  the  sofa  in  the  library, 
and  been  almost  continually  absent. 

One  night — a  night  of  scudding  clouds  and  sudden  drenching 

10 


146  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

showers,  Gaspar  entered  the  library  about  midnight.  He  had 
been  absent  since  morning,  had  dined  out,  and  passed  the 
evening  at  his  club,  and  came  home  now  feeling  unaccountably 
wearied.  The  gas,  lowered  to  a  little  spot  of  blue,  diffused  just 
the  feeblest  ray  of  light  possible.  The  outside  shutters  were 
closed,  and  securely  fastened ;  but  the  humid  air  came  through 
the  blinds,  and  sent  the  lace  curtains  waving  through  the  room, 
like  white,  ghostly  banners. 

Gaspar  dropped  listlessly  into  the  arm-chair  standing  at  the 
right  of  the  centre-table  (the  chair  where  Naomi  sat  on  that 
memorable  evening),  removed  his  hat,  and  brushed  back  his 
hair,  dampened  and  tangled  by  the.  shower  wind.  There  was  a 
gloom  and  desolation  upon  the  room  that  oppressed  him  inex 
plicably  ;  for  he  was  not  usually  susceptible  of  these  mysterious 
influences.  He  fell,  physically  benumbed  and  mentally  stupified. 
into  an  incapability  of  thought.  So  he  sat  for  several  minutes, 
till  suddenly  remembering  that  he  was  sitting  there  with  damp 
ened  clothing,  and  with  the  rain-air  circulating  freely  around 
the  room,  he  shook  off  his  apathy,  started  up,  and  turned 
on  the  gas.  Right  under  it,  in  the  centre  of  the  green  baize 
table  cover,  a  letter  was  lying ;  directed,  as  he  could  see  at  the 
first  rapid  glance,  in  Naomi's  clear,  firm,  rather  masculine  hand, 
to  Gaspar  Mayance,  Esq. 

A  little,  just  a  very  little  pale,  he  picked  it  up,  and  held  it  for 
a  moment  in  his  hand  unopened.  Whatever  shock  there  may 
have  been  for  him  in  the  intelligence  it  conveyed,  he  had  already 
received.  At  last  he  drew  it  very  calmly  from  its  envelope, 
unfolded  it,  and  read: 

Knowing  what  you  know,  Gaspar,  it  will  not,  cannot  asto 
nish  you  to  learn  that  when  you  receive  this  I  shall  have  left 
you— /or  ever  left  you.  This  is  no  quarrel  that  may  be  recon 
ciled  ;  no  alienation  that  time  and  reflection  may  overcome ;  it 
is  but  the  simple  outward  manifestation  of  a  sundering  that  in 
fact  took  place  long  ago. 


THE  HISTOKY  OF  A  WOMAN.  147 

I  ask  nothing  from  you.  "When  I  cross  the  threshold  of  your 
door  for  the  last  time,  I  leave  behind  me  everything  that  is 
yours — even  the  name  that  I  have  borne.  I  sever  with  one 
decisive  blow  the  bonds  that  have  bound  us,  and  take  to  myself 
that  entire,  unquestioned  freedom  which  has  been  practically 
yours  for  a  long  time,  and  which  you  will  now  legitimately 
possess  in  its  fullest  amplitude. 

I  do  not  say  to  you,  forget  me.  There  is  no  need  of  any  such 
injunction.  There  was  even  at  the  best  so  little  of  reality  in 
our  imagined  feelings  for  each  other,  that  all  that  appertains  to 
our  past  must  inevitably  fade  away,  and  naturally  take  its  place 
among  the  many  phantasms  of  this  life  that  wear  to  us  for  a 
time  the  garb  of  truth.  Burn  this,  and  among  all  your  posses 
sions  you  will  scarce  find  one  trace  to  remind  you  that  such  a 
being  ever  existed  as 

NAOMI  TOKRENTE. 

June  28,  18-. 

He  was  very  pale,  indeed,  and  there  were  drops  of  moisture 
on  his  brow  when  he  laid  the  letter  down.  Involuntarily  his 
eyes  wandered  towards  the  windows,  where  the  rain  was  beating 
with  sudden  violence.  This  wild,  gusty  night,  where  had  she 
found  refuge  ?  At  Mrs.  Wane's,  perhaps.  But,  little  as  he 
comprehended  her,  a  moment's  reflection  sufficed  to  show  him 
the  folly  of  this  thought.  With  a  sudden  impulse  he  passed 
rapidly  from  the  library,  through  the  halls,  and  up-stairs  to  their 
bed-room ;  struck  a  match,  and  lighted  the  gas.  All  in  its  usual 
order,  but  no  sign  of  life  there.  None  of  the  little  articles  of 
the  toilet  strewn  about,  no  woman's  clothing  anywhere  visible. 
Closet  door  stood  open  ;  shelves  and  pegs  all  empty.  The  same 
sickening  air  of  desolation  pervaded  this  room,  and  Gaspar 
hastily  extinguished  the  gas  and  mounted  to  the  upper  floor 
where  the  servants  slept.  It  was  not  till  after  knocking  for 
some  time  that  n*e  succeeded  in  rousing  one  of  them. 

"  What  time  did  your  mistress  go  out  to-day  ?"  he  asked. 


148  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"  Somewhere  aoout  ten  in  the  morning,"  the  girl  answered 
sleepily  from  within. 

"  Did  she  leave  any  word  with  any  one  ?" 

No ;  she  was  sure  she  had  not. 

"  Did  she  take  any  trunks  away  with  her  ?" 

Not  that  day.  Some  trunks  were  taken  away  by  a  man  the 
day  before. 

"Did  she  go  in  a  carriage  or  on  foot?" 

On  foot. 

Slowly  Gaspar  descended  to  the  library,  seated  himself,  and 
carefully  re-read  Naomi's  letter.  Perchance  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart  there  might  not  have  been  even  a  faint  lingering  of 
love  for  her ;  perchance  her  absence  was  in  truth  a  relief  to  him ; 
yet  his  heart  was  not  callous,  and  as  he  thought  of  her,  a  home 
less  wanderer,  because  he  had  so  miserably  failed  in  the  vow  he 
had  made  to  love  and  cherish — he  bowed  his  head,  overpowered 
with  remorse,  and  bitter  tears  of  penitence  fell  upon  the  words 
of  that  eternal  adieu. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  149 


IP  .A.  R  T     I.I . 


CHAPTER  I. 

FIVE  years  have  elapsed.  It  is  a  drizzly,  uncomfortable  night  in 
Paris,  such  a  night  as  one  would  imagine  would  keep  people  at 
home  ;  yet  the  environs  of  the  Grand  Opera  House  are  thronged 
with  carriages,  and  crowds  besiege  the  doors  for  admittance  long 
after  every  seat  in  the  house  is  occupied. 

It  is  the  debut  of  La  Castadini,  a  cantatrice  who  has  obtained 
brilliant  triumphs  on  the  Continent  and  in  London,  and  who 
now  bravely  comes  to  submit  herself  to  the  test  of  Parisian 
criticism. 

Two  young  and  elegant  Parisians,  who  have  just  met  and 
exchanged  greetings  in  the  lobby,  begin  speaking  of  the  Prima 
Donna  while  waiting  for  the  commencement  of  the  overture. 

"They  say  that  La  Castadini  is  very  beautiful,"  remarks  the 
taller  of  the  two  negligently. 

"  Yes,  very  beautiful  indeed.  I  used  to  hear  her  almost  every 
night  last  season  at  Milan.  She  is  a  great  singer  and  a  great 
actress,  and,  wonderful  to  relate  of  an  artiste,  possesses  an  ex 
cellent  reputation.  And  this  while  she  is  perfectly  free  and 
pays  less  regard  to  conventionalities  than  the  generality  of 
people." 

"  Humph !  she  must  be  a  miracle,  indeed,  to  resist  all  the 
temptations  that  beset  youth  and  beauty  in  her  career.  Did  you 
ever  meet  her  in  society  ?" 

"  No ;  she  moved  very  little  in  general  society,  though  she 
was  not  only  received,  but  very  greatly  sought  after.  She  pre- 


150  NAOMI  TORRENTS  : 

fers,  1  am  told,  the  intellectual  companionship  of  men  of  let 
ters." 

"  Is  she  really  an  Italian  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  a  true  Italian,  as  you  will  see  by  her  face.  The 
overture  is  going  to  commence.  She  has  a  grand  house  to 
welcome  her."  • 

The  ( opera  is  Traviata.  The  overture  is  finished,  and  the 
curtain  slowly  rises.  No  one  pays  any  attention  till  the  en 
trance  of  La  Castadini,  but  at  the  first  wave  of  her  robe  there 
is  a  sudden  universal  hush  for  a  moment,  and  then  a  storm  of 
applause.  She  stands  quite  still  for  a  moment,  slightly  inclining 
her  head,  looking  about  twenty ;  and  her  beauty  set  off  by 
the  elegant  dress  of  the  character,  is  resplendent.  She  is  cer 
tainly  Italian,  or  at  least  Meridional.  Her  voice,  pure,  rich, 'and 
full  of  melody  and  passion,  thrills  the  audience  at  the  first  notes. 
In  the  first  scenes  she  is  the  lorette,  the  wayward,  erring  woman, 
in  whose  heart  sleep  the  capabilities  for  better  things,  but  so 
silenced,  so  put  aside  by  the  associations  of  her  life,  that  they 
are  only  manifest  in  the  feverish  restlessness  which  drives  her 
from  one  excitement  to  another.,  But  when  under  the  purifying, 
regenerating  influence  of  love,  Yioletta  rises  into  her  nobler 
nature,  then  it  is  that  the  actress  begins  to  send  through  the 
audience  the  electric  thrills  that  the  delineations  of  genius,  in 
whatever  walk  of  art,  always  produce.  How  inexpressibly 
touching  is  her  remorseful  tenderness  !  •  How  beautiful  the  sim 
ple-hearted  earnestness  with  which  she  cherishes  the  little  bunch 
of  wild  flowers  her  lover's  hand  has  gathered,  and  thinks  with 
what  indifference  her  eyes  were  wont  to  view  her  bouquets 
of  camelias.  As  the  mournful  drama  progresses  the  interest 
deepens ;  ladies  sit  in  their  boxes  sad  and  silent ;  gentlemen  lean 
eagerly  forward !  Her  heart-breaking  sacrifice,  the  long  agony 
that  ensues  and  exhausts  her  life,  the  last  overpowering  joy, 
that  makes  even  death  ineffably  blissful — all  are  portrayed  to 
the  life ;  and  when  the  curtain  falls,  grey-haired  men  have 
turned  away  to  hide  their  womanish  tears. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A   WOMAN.  151 

There  is  a  tumult  of  rapturous  applause ;  hats  and  handker 
chiefs  are  waved,  and  La  Castadini  is  loudly  called  for.  The 
curtain  rolls  up  again,  in  obedience  to  their  wishes,  and  the 
tenor  leads  her  on.  She  bows  and  smiles,  crosses  the  stage 
with  her  majestic  tread,  takes  from  the  tenor  the  innumerable 
bouquets  that  are  rained  upon  her  from  every  quarter,  and  is 
gone  again. 

A  party  of  people,  sitting  in  one  of  the  private  boxes,  have 
been  particularly  enthusiastic  in  their  admiration  of  the  Prima 
Donna.  They  spoke  Spanish,  and  any  judge  of  physiognomy 
could  easily  have  pronounced  them  Cubans. 

The  party  consisted  of  four  people.  A  gentleman  advanced 
in  life,  with  a  noble,  dignified  face,  whose  hair,  beard,  and 
moustache,  were  almost  entirely  grey.  He  occupied  a  seat  a 
little  back  at  the  right  side  of  the  box,  and  sitting  by  his  side, 
in  front,  was  a  lady,  some  fifty  or  fifty-five  years  old,  elegantly 
dressed  in  velvet,  diamonds,  and  ermine,  who,  still  remarka 
bly  youthful  in  appearance,  must  have  have  been  extremely 
beautiful  in  her  youth.  In  the  centre  of  the  box  sat  a  young 
girl,  who,  from  her  strong  resemblance  to  both  the  lady  and 
gentleman,  was  evidently  their  child.  She  looked  about  seven 
teen,  and  was  dressed  with  elegant  simplicity  in  a  robe  of  India 
muslin,  trimmed  with  exquisite  lace.  Rare  flowers  were  wound 
amid  the  dark,  luxuriant  hair,  that  was  twisted  into  a  heavy 
knot  low  down  on  her  neck.  The  delicate  oval  of  the  face,  the 
low,  smooth  brow,  the  nose  that  would  have  been  perfectly 
Grecian  but  for  the  softest  of  curves  that  made  it  so  delicately, 
so  beautifully  aquiline — the  little  rose-bud  mouth,  and  then  the 
eyes — the  large,  dark  eyes,  where  a  dreamy  haze  seemed  to  veil 
the  too  ardent  fires,  formed  a  perfect  whole,  that  in  the  form  of 
regular  beauty  could  hardly  be  surpassed.  Her  figure,  however, 
though  well  proportioned  and  graceful,  did  not  correspond  with 
the  perfect  beauty  of  her  face. 

At  her  left,  and  half  in  the  shadow  of  the  box  curtain,  a  gen 
tleman  was  seated.  He  was  about  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  not 


152  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

anything  abgve  the  medium  height,  but  possessing  a  most  ele 
gantly  proportioned  figure.  His  hair,  beard,  and  moustache 
were  black ;  his  complexion  remarkably  fair  for  a  native  of  a 
tropical  clime,  and  his  slightly  aquiline  features  of  a  noble 
regularity.  His  face  expressed  a  high  order  of  intellect,  and  an 
imperious  haughtiness  of  character,  that  would  naturally  rather 
repel  the  generality  of  people,  and  form  a  strong  element  of  at 
traction  to  the  few  who  liked  him.  He,  too,  had  the  large, 
dark  Cuban  eyes,  with  the  difference  that  a  little  sternness 
was  perceptible  through  their  languid  fire.  His  manner 
was  animated,  and  his  movements  rapid  yet  exceedingly  grace 
ful. 

From  the  first  entrance  of  La  Castadini,  he  had  seemed  for 
getful  of  all  else ;  only  when  the  elder  lady  leaned  forward,  and 
said  to  him : 

"  Is  she  not  beautiful,  Justo?"  he  answered : 

"  Divinely  beautiful." 

The  young  girl's  face  clouded  a  little  as  she  heard  these 
words ;  and  looking  intently  at  her  companion,  to  attract  his 
attention  towards  herself,  she  asked  : 

"Do  you  think,  Justo,  that  her  voice  is  as  fine  as  La  Guic- 
ciomini's  ?" 

Justo,  his  head  half  averted,  remained  immovable,  and  made 
no  reply.  The  young  girl  waited  a  minute,  and  then  drew  sud 
denly  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  box — two  great  tears  swimming 
in  her  bright  eyes. 

When  the  curtain  fell  upon  this  scene,  Justo's  magnetized 
gaze  was  released,  and  he  missed  the  fair  young  creature  from 
his  sider 

"  Why,  Lola,  for  what  purpose  did  you  go  back  there  ?"  he 
asked.  "Did  you  lose  all  that  great  scene?" 

"  I  could  never  be  so  absorbed  in  anything  that  I  could  not 
hear  you,  Justo,  when  you  spoke  to  me." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me  ?  Pardon  my  inattention.  You  know 
how  I  love  music,  and  it  is  indeed  impossible  to  resist  it  when 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  153 

so  enchantingly  rendered.  Let  us  listen  with  all  our  senses,  for 
it  is  a  sin  to  lose  a  single  note  of  this." 

Tranquillized  by  these  words,  and  a  tender  pressure  of  the 
hand,  Lola  resumed  her  seat.  Nevertheless,  spite  of  her  child 
like  confidence,  she  could  not  help  noticing  that  it  was  only 
when  La  Castadini  appeared  that  Justo  became  absorbed,  and 
that  his  interest  in  the  entrancing  music  was  quite  gone  as  soon 
as  she  left  the  stage. 

When  the  opera  was  over,  and  they  were  going  to  their  car 
riage,  Justo  saw  that  Lola  walked  pensively  by  his  side,  her 
head  a  little  bent,  and  her  eyes  downcast. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Lolita  ?"  he  asked  tenderly.  "  Why 
so  sad,  sweet  ?" 

But  Lola,  with  one  rapid  glance  at  him,  bent  her  head  still 
more,  and  walked  on  in  silence. 


154  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  La  Castadini  was  alone  in 
her  elegant  apartments,  situated  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable 
quarters  of  Paris.  Seen  near  to,  and  by  daylight,  she  looked 
not  a  day  older  than  on  the  stage;  judging  from  a  rapid 
glance,  and  without  hearing  her  speak,  you  would  have  pro 
nounced  her  age  to  be  nineteen  or  twenty.  But  could  anyone 
have  contemplated  her  unobserved,  as  she  reclined  in  a  large 
fauteuil,  her  simple  morning  robe  loosely  girded  about  her 
classic  form,  and  her  head*  restin'g  thoughtfully  upon  her  hand, 
he  would  have  seen  that  no  woman  of  twenty  ever  possessed 
that  face.  There  were  no  lines  there ;  brow  and  cheek  were 
smooth  as  polished  marble ;  yet  from  all  the  countenance,  even 
from  the  eyelids  drooping  pensively  over  the  eyes,  breathed  the 
thought,  and  vigor,  and  experience  of  ripened  womanhood. 
In  the  perfect  gravity  of  the  marked  features  there  might  have 
been  a  shade  of  stern  melancholy ;  but  when  she  rose,  and  shak 
ing  off  her  reverie,  called  her  maid  from  an  adjoining  room,  her 
lineaments  softened  into  their  habitual  expression  of  gentle 
firmness. 

"  Nannie,"  she  said,  "  give  me  my  things,  and  see  if  the  car- 
.riage  is  below." 

The  maid  obeyed.  Her  mistress  rapidly  and  silently  attired 
herself,  and  on  being  informed  that  the  carriage  was  in  waiting, 
descended,  entered  it,  and  drove  to  the  Opera-House. 

Though  artistic  and  exact,  La  Castadini  was  cold  at  rehearsals. 
It  was  the  illusion  of  night  that  brought  her  inspiration.  The 
opera  was  Ernani.  Several  times  in  crossing  to  the  left  of  the 
stage,  the  Prima  Donna  noticed  an  old  gentleman  standing  at 
the  first  wing,  who  seemed  to  observe  her  with  unusually  ab 
sorbed  attention.  He  was  evidently  an  Italian,  and  his  long 


THE   HISTORY  OF   A  WOMAN".  155 

white  hair  fell  round  a  face  full  of  benignity.  Something  fami 
liar  in  his  countenance  riveted  La  Castadini's  eyes  upon  him ; 
she  frequently  entirely  lost  sight  of  her  role  in  endeavoring  in 
vain  to  recal  when  and  where  she  had  seen  him.  When  the 
rehearsal  was  over  and  the  artistes  were  beginning  to  retire,  she 
saw  him  leave  his  post  and  slowly  make  the  circuit  of  the  stage. 
Presently  he  approached  her  with  a  rapid  step,  as  though  he 
had  at  last  summoned  courage  for  an  effort,  and  said,  with  a 
deferential  bow,  speaking  English  with  a  strong  foreign  accent : 
"  Pardon  me,  Madame,  but  I  have  surely  known  you  some 
where.  Was  it  not  in  America,  some  five  years  since?" 

Spite  of  her  perfect  self-command,  acquired  in  long  and  per 
petual  contact  with  the  world,  La  Castadini  could  not  prevent 
herself  from  starting  slightly.  She  knew  him  now.  His  voice, 
his  words,  had  instantaneously  enlightened  her.  She  was  silent 
a  moment,  and  then  she  said,  extending  her  hand  to  him  with  a 
frank  smile : 

"  I  remember  you  well,  Signer  Paulini.  Take  a  seat  in  my 
carriage  and  come  home  with  me.  I  should  like  much  to  speak 
to  you." 

He  bowed  his  willingness,  and  followed.  They  reached  their 
destination  in  silence. 

0,  too  many  memories  were  striving  at  that  woman's  heart 
to  let  her  speak.  In  her  own  apartment  she  motioned  him  to  a 
seat,  left  him  for  a  moment  to  lay  aside  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
then  returning,  took  a  seat  opposite  to  him. 

"  The  sight  of  you,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  almost  like  one 
in  a  dream,  "  has  annihilated  for  a  moment  the  years  that  have 
passed  since  I  last  saw  you — has  carried  me  back  .to  myself  as  I 
was  then." 

"  You  have  fulfilled  your  destiny,  Madame.  You  have  be 
come  the  greatest  artiste  of  the  day.  It  is  a  glorious  fate.  Is  it 
a  happy  one  ?" 

Her  face  lighted  and  glowed. 

"As  happy  as  any,  Signer  Paulini,  I  believe.     Its  intellectual 


156  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

triumphs,  its  moments  of  intoxicating  joy,  may  be  said  to  repay 
one  for  the  disadvantages  that    attend   every   earthly   career. 
Yet — "     She  checked  herself  suddenly  with  a  suppressed  sigh, 
and  added,  abruptly  changing  the  subject: 
"  But  how  is  it  that  you  are  here  in  Paris  ?" 
"  I  wanted  to  wander  home  to  my  own  fair  Italy  to  die.     I 
am  an  old  man.     I  have  enough  to  live  upon  for  the  rest  of  my 
life ;  I  have  no  family,  and  my  country  is  my  only  home.     I 
quitted  America  six  months  ago." 

Naomi  sat  in  silence,  with  downcast  eyes.    There  was  a  strug 
gle  within,  dividing  her  between  a  wish  to  ask  one  question  and 
the  pride  that  sealed  her  lips.     The  old  Italian  saw  it,  but,  un 
questioned,  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  upon  the  subject.     Her 
hesitancy  lasted  but  a  moment ;  the  haughty  indifference  which 
was  in  reality  her  predominating  sentiment  in  regard  to  the 
matter  resumed  its  sway.     She  raised  her  head  and  asked  : 
"  Do  you  remain  long  here,  Signor  Paulini  ?" 
"  I  go  to-morrow  to  London,  where  I  have  a  little  business, 
then  home  to  Florence." 

"  To  London  !  Why,  precisely,  I  am  going  there,  to  see  my 
brother." 

"  Your  brother,  Madame  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  brother,  an  adopted  brother ;  yet,  nevertheless,  as 
truly  my  brother  as  though  the  same  blood  flowed  in  our  veins. 
I  will  tell  you,  if  you  have  time  to  listen,  how  it  happened.  It 
is  a  strange  history. 

"  It  was  three  years  ago,  while  I  was  still  struggling  with  all 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  which  attend  an  unprotected  woman 
in  the  outset  of  an  artistic  career.  I  was  in  New  Orleans,  and 
passing  along  one  day  on  my  way  to  the  theatre,  I  was  struck 
by  the  appearance  of  a  youth  of  about  seventeen  years,  who, 
standing  on  the  corner  of  the  street,  affected  to  be  reading  some 
posters,  but  whd,  in  reality,  as  I  could  very  easily  see,  was  lost 
in  wretohed  thoughts.  It  was  an  unfrequented  part  of  the  town. 
I  stopped  and  attentively  regarded  him.  He  was  miserably 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  157 

dressed,  yet  I  could  perceive  that  his  figure  was  slender  and 
well  proportioned.  He  wore  an  old,  soiled  cap  slouched  over 
his  brow,  and  his  whole  person  was  pervaded  by  that  air  of 
reckless  misery  always  produced  by  extreme  and  long-continued 
misfortune.  His  face  was  slightly  upturned,  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impression  it  produced  upon  me.  His  features  were 
not  entirely  regular,  but  it  was  naturally  a  countenance  of 
almost  womanly  beauty  and  softness.  I  knew  this  from  its  con 
formation,  from  the  delicate  whiteness  of  his  skin,  and  his 
abundant  locks  of  light  brown,  waving  hair ;  but  there  was 
nothing  of  softness  in  his  expression  now.  In  my  life  I  have 
never  seen,  and  trust  I  may  never  see  again,  such  a  dark,  despe 
rate,  wicked  look  as  burned  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes,  and  de 
formed  the  fair  lineaments  of  his  face.  It  was  just  that  inde 
scribable  expression  of  wrathful  defiance  that  certain  natures 
(not  the  least  noble  either,  I  think),  when  thwarted,  outraged, 
impotent  to  vindicate  or  revenge,  will  turn  to  man,  to  fate,  almost 
in  their  sacrilegious  daring  to  Heaven  itself. 

"  I  was  moved  by  a  strange,  strong  impulse  to  accost  him,  to 
do  something  for  him  ;  but  reflecting  that  in  his  mood  he  would 
most  likely  misconstrue  me  and  perhaps  answer  rudely,  I  moved 
hesitatingly  on.  But  I  could  not  leave  him  thus  ;  my  interest 
was  too  great.  I  drew  near  him  and  stopped,  not  knowing  in' 
what  form  to  address  him.  He  did  not  turn ;  his  fixed  gaze 
never  wavered;  he  seemed  utterly  unconscious  of  everything 
passing  around  him.  •  I  waited  for  a  minute  before  I  gained 
courage  to  speak,  then  I  said : 

"  '  Sir,  you  seem  to  be  looking  for  something.  Perhaps  you 
are  a  stranger  in  this  city ;  perhaps  you  would  like  some  one  to 
direct  you  ?' 

"  When  people  have  reached  the  acme  of  unhappiness,  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  surprising  them.  He  turned  his  head  slowly, 
and  looked  down  at  me  with  the  same  sombre  gaze,  just  as  a 
sleep-walker  stares  without  seeing.  It  was  full  a  minute  before 
he  spoke  a  word,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  suppressed  voice, 


158  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

perfectly  in  keeping  with  everything  else  about  him,  and  yet  in 
which  an  undefinable  something  denoted  a  natural  refinement 
and  some  degree  of  education  : 

"  '  Did  you  speak  to  me  ?' 

" '  Pardon  me,'  I  answered,  'you  seem  to  me  to  be  very  unhappy, 
and  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  console  you  in  some  way.  Those 
who  have  themselves  suffered,  know  how  to  compassionate  the 
sufferings  of  others.  Tell  me  if  I  can  do  anything  for  you.' 

"  I  saw  with  a  sensation  of  joy  his^ye  soften  with  an  expres 
sion  half  wonder,  half  gratitude.  Turning  a  little  away  from 
me,  he  stood  for  some  time  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  in 
moody  silence.  At  last  he  said  hesitatingly  : 

"  '  You  are  very  kind,  but  I  need  nothing  from  anj^one.' 

"  '  O,'  I  said,  unwilling  to  let  him  go  without  a  last  effort, 
'  don't  reject  what  Heaven  perhaps  sends  you  as  a  consolation 
to  enable  you  to  bear  your  sorrows.  Will  you  not  walk  along 
by  me  for  a  little  way,  and  think  whether  I  can  be  of  service  to 
you  or  not  ?' 

"  Loathly,  as  constrained  by  something  stronger  than  his  will, 
he  joined  me;  walking  erect,  but  with  his  head  a  little  bent  for 
ward,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  I  said,  as  we  passed  along : 

"  '  It  must  seem  very  strange  to  you  that  I,  a  woman,  not  a 
great  deal  older  than  yourself,  should  accost  you  in  the  street, 
and  speak  to  you  as  I  have.  This  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am 
different  from  the  generality  of  people.  •  You  should  have  less 
hesitation  in  being  frank  with  me.  Will  you  tell  me  your  name 
at  least  ?' 

"  He  answered  in  a  low  voice,  that  his  name  was  Angelo 
Penar ;  that '  his  history  was  too  long  to  tell,  and  besides  not 
worth  the  trouble ;  yet  word  by  word  I  drew  from  him  the 
reluctant  confession  that  he  was  homeless  and  penniless.  This 
was  all  I  cared  to  know ;  I  stopped,  and  drew  from  my  pocket 
one  of  my  cards  and  my  purse — scantily  enough  supplied  in 
those  days,  and  said  to  him  : 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  159 

"  '  Mr.  Penar,  this  is  my  card.  Will  you  take  it,  and  come 
and  see  me  this  or  to-morrow  afternoon  ?  Meanwhile  do  me  the 
favor  to  accept  a  little  loan  from  me,  which,  when  you  find'  em 
ployment,  you  shall  repay  me,  with  interest  if  you  like.' 

"  Before  he  had  time  to  answer  I  left  both  card  and  purse  in 
his  hand  and  walked  rapidly  on.  As  long  as  I  could  see  him 
he  was  still  standing  motionless  in  the  same  spot. 

"  He  came  to  see  me  that  afternoon.  I  was  at  leisure,  and 
received  him  in  my  little  room.  When  at  my  invitation  he  sat 
down,  removing  his  cap  as  he  did  so,  I  saw  that  his  finely 
formed  head  was  intellectual,  and  his  face,  spite  of  its  haggard, 
hopeless  look,  full  of  that  beautiful  ideality  which  indicates  a 
soul  that  lives  in  dreams.  There  was  great  power  of  resistance 
in  him,  but  very  little  of  that  rough-hewn  energy  that  can  battle 
successfully  with  the  hard  conditions  of  life.  His  slender,  refined 
figure  was  slightly  inclined  to  droop,  as  though  the  burden  of 
existence  bore  already  too  heavily  upon  him. 

"  I  sat  down  near  him  and  said,  as  kindly  as  possible : 

"  '  Mr.  Penar,  you  say  you  have  no  family — neither  have  I ; 
you  have  to  struggle  alone,  unaided — so  do  I.  This  resemblance 
in  our  fate  should  be  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  us,  should  it 
not  ?  It  would  almost  seem  as  if  Heaven  had  thrown  us  toge 
ther  in  such  an  unusual  way  for  the  purpose  of  mutual  consola 
tion.  I  do  not  ask  for  your  confidence  unless  you  willingly 
choose  to  give  it  me.  At  your  age  the  heart  is  very  rarely  ever 
corrupt,  and  besides,  I  trust  a  great  deal  to  my  impressions,  and 
what  I  read  in  your  face,  and  the  pride  and  delicacy  of  "your 
conduct,  convince  me  that  my  interest  is  not  misplaced.' 

"  He  said  in  that  discouraged  voice  of  his  that  it  oppressed 
my  heart  to  hear : 

'"It  would  be  of  no  use  to  tell  what  has  happened  to  me, 
because  if  I  were  wicked  I  might  invent  something  instead  of 
telling  the  truth ;  so,  if  it  is  the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather 
not.  You  are  so  strangely  kind  and  sympathizing,  so  different 
from  every  one  else  that  I  have  ever  seen,  that  I  don't  know  how 


160  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

to  thank  you.  I  will  say  this  much,  though.  I  was  wandering 
about  the  streets  to-day  when  you  met  me,  because  my  master, 
a  man  who  keeps  a  marble  yard,  to  whom  I  bound  myself  a 
year  ago,  got  into  a  rage  and  raised  a  mallet  to  strike  me,  and  I 
wrenched  it  out  of  his  hand  and  knocked  him  down.  After  that 
I  left  the  place,  and  have  been  ever  since  (it  was  two  days  ago) 
wandering  about  the  streets.' 

"  '  You  have  been  cutting  marble,  then  ;  do  you  know  much 
of  sculpture?' 

"  '  A  little.     I  love  it  dearly.' 

"  There  was  a  sudden  light  in  his  eyes,  and  almost  a  smile 
upon  his  lips.  '  Ah,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  there  is  a  great  deal  in 
this  poor,  houseless  boy.' 

"  '  I  am  so  glad  of  that,'  I  said  cheeringly ;  '  there  is  the  hope 
of  a  career  for  you.  I  will  think  it  all'  over,  and  we  shall  see. 
We  shall  not  lose  sight  of  each  other,  depend  on  that.' 

"  He  stayed  a  little  while  longer,  and  then,  with  the  promise 
to  come  again  the  next  day,  he  went  away. 

"  I  saw  him  every  day  for  a  fortnight,  and,  coming  by  degrees 
to  rely  on  the  stability  of  my  friendship,  he  told  me  all  about 
himself.  A  most  melancholy  life  had  been  his,  in  which  there 
were  no  sacred  memories  of  home  to  soften  the  heart  and  dim 
the  eyes  with  tender  tears.  His  father  had  abandoned  himself 
to  the  vice  of  gambling  from  the  boy's  earliest  recollections,  and 
he  lost  his  mother  (he  never  said  she  died,  but  that  he  lost  her) 
when  he  was  a  mere  child.  He  venerated  his  father's  memory, 
and  never  spoke  of  him  save  with  respect ;  yet  my  imagination 
could  easily  fill  up  the  blanks  in  his  narrative,  and  conceive  all 
the  misery  of  the  child's  life  while  wandering  from  place  to 
place  for  years  with  his  poor,  lost,  reckless  parent,  in  pursuit  of 
new  opportunities  of  practising  his  ruinous  profession.  Worn 
out  in  mind  and  body,  at  last  the  father  died,  and  left  Angelo 
(at  that  time  fourteen  years  old)  alone.  Then  followed  three 
long  years  in  which  the  boy,  sensitive  by  nature,  melancholy 
and  distrustful  from  his  bitter  experience,  was  tossed  hither  and 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  161 

thither  by  every  wind  and  wave  of  adverse  fortune,  until  soured, 
disgusted,  turned  from  each  better  impulse  of  his  nature,  there 
remained  but  one  step  between  him  and  desperation. 

"  He  had  found  too  little  faith  in  man  to  be  given  to  confi 
dences,  but  to  me  he  opened  all  his  heart,  and  told  me,  I  do 
believe,  as  nearly  as  he  could  remember,  every  detail  of  his 
existence. 

"  I  took  him  for  my  brother,  vowing  inwardly  to  divide  with 
him  my  fortune,  whatever  it  might  be,  and  be  to  him  as  true  a 
sister  as  ever  brother  had.  His  gratitude,  his  entire  devotion  to 
me,  knew  no  bounds.  Ah,  there  never  beat  on  earth  a  juster, 
nobler  heart  than  his ! 

"  Our  destiny  henceforward  was  to  be  inseparable.  He  went 
North  with  me,  and  in  Philadelphia  I  placed  him  with  a  sculp 
tor.  I  soon  discovered  that  he  possessed  fine,  original  genius 
for  his  art,  and  an  exquisitely  delicate  and  fastidious  taste. 

"  In  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  was  so  changed  as  to  be 
scarcely  recognizable.  Encouragement,  affection,  home,  had 
opened  a  new  world  before  him.  To  complete  his  happiness,  for 
he  was  very  proud,  he  soon  ceased  to  be  in  the  least  dependent 
on  me,  as  his  services  were  really  of  great  utility  to  his  master. 
O,  I  was  so  happy  when  I  reflected  that,  with  a  little  clearer 
perception  than  the  generality  of  people  care  to  have,  and  a 
little  of  that  divine  sympathy  that  warms  and  heals  the  heart,  I 
had  been  able  to  accomplish  this ! 

"  Two  years  ago  he  crossed  the  Atlantic  with  me,  and  I  left 
him  in  London  established  in  a  little  studio  of  his  own.  Young 
as  he  is,  and  slowly  as  artistic  fame  is  acquired,  he  is  already 
well  and  very  favorably  known  in  London.  All  over  Italy,  on 
my  arrival  at  a  new  place,  a  letter  from  him  has  been  my  first 
greeting.  He  rejoices  far  more  in  my  triumphs  than  I  do 
myself,  and  is  prouder  of  his  sister's  fame  than  she  can  ever 
be. 

"  There  now,  you  have  the  whole  story.  I  hope  I  have  not 
tired  you." 

11 


162  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  has  been  intensely  interesting  to  me. 
Ah,  Signora,  you  have  a  great  soul  as  well  as  great  genius !" 
.     "No  flattery,  Signer  Paulini.      I  positively  prohibit  it.     It 
has  long  since  lost  its  charm  for  me. 

"And  now,  before  we  say  adieu,  let  me  add  that  I  have 
been  happy  to  meet  you,  and  should  you  ever  again  find 
yourself  in  the  same  place  with  me,  I  trust  you  will  come 
and  see  me  frequently." 

The  old  Italian  bowed  with  respectful  gratitude  over  the 
hand  that  Naomi  cordially  extended  to  him,  and  with  a  lin 
gering  look  of  interest  and  admiration,  in  which  there  was  a 
shade  of  sadness,  quitted  the  room. 


THE  HISTOEY  OF  A  WOMAN.'  163 


CHAPTEE  III. 

NOON  had  just  rung  out  in  London.  In  one  of  the  busiest 
thoroughfares  of  the  city  a  carriage,  after  with  difficulty  making 
its  way  nearly  the  length  of  the  street,  stopped  before  an  im 
mensely  tall  house,  filled  with  offices  of  every  description.  The 
coachman  leaped  from  his  box  and  opened  the  carriage  door ; 
an  elegantty  dressed  lady  alighted,  and  after  bidding  the  coach 
man  return  for  her  in  two  hours,  entered  the  tall  house,  and  ran 
with  a  light,  rapid  step  up  five  or  six  flights  of  stairs  to  the  last 
story.  Here  she  paused  for  a  moment,  as  though  striving  to 
recall  something  to  mind,  then  passed  slowly  along,  attentively 
regarding  the  signs  upon  the  doors,  until  she  reached  the  last 
one  on  the  right  of  the  hall,-  on  which  was  painted  in  black 
letters :  "  Angelo  Penar,  Sculptor."  Pressing  her  hand  upon  her 
heart,  which  had  a  little  accelerated  its  beatings,  she  tapped 
gently.  There  was  no  answer ;  and  she  had  raised  her  hand  to 
repeat  the  tap,  when  she  saw  that  the  key  was  on  the  outside  of 
the  lock.  She  turned  it,  opened  the  door,  and  entered. 

It  was  a  veritable  sculptor's  studio ;  flooded  with  light  from 
two  great  curtainless  windows,  from  which,  owing  to  the  eleva 
tion  of  the  room,,  you  caught  sight  of  a  great  expanse  of  sky. 
The  floor  was  uncarpeted  but  clean,  save  where  it  was  strewn 
with  bits  of  marble ;  and  as  you  faced  the  windows  a  large 
screen  cut  off  the  right  corner  of  the  apartment.  Two  or  three 
busts  stood  about  on  pedestals  ;  innumerable  statuettes  and  casts 
were  ranged  on  shelves  and  along  the  sides  of  the  room  on  the 
floor ;  and  between  the  windows,  placed  there  probably  with  a 
view  to  the  advantage  of  the  light,  stood  a  very  large  but  not 
very  high  block  of  marble,  the  top  of  which  had  already  as 
sumed  the  outlines  of  a  beautiful  female  form  leaning  on  a  lyre. 


164  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

This  it  was  that  most  attracted  Naomi's  attention  (for  it  was 
she).  She  approached  and  examined  it  attentively,  endeavoring 
to  determine  what  it  was  intended  to  represent.  The  attitude, 
indicated  as  yet  only  by  faint  outlines,  was  hardly  discernable ; 
but  the  head  thrown  back,  with  the  face  elevated  towards 
heaven,  was,  though  still  very  far  from  finished,  distinctly 
marked,  and  Naomi  was  struck  with  admiration  at  observing 
the  look  of  inspiration  which  the  artist  had  already  thrown  into 
the  face. 

With  the  freedom  of  one  perfectly  at  home,  Naomi  had 
thrown  off  bonnet  and  shawl ;  and  was  still  contemplating  the 
statue,  when  she  heard  Angelo's  well-remembered  steps  coming 
quickly  along  the  hall.  Seized  with  a  sudden  girlish  impulse, 
she  caught  up  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  with  one  bound  placed 
herself  behind  the  screen,  finding  herself  stumbling  over  and 
wedged  in  by  plaster  casts,  pictures,  books,  manikins,  and  what 
not.  She  had  scarcely  time  to  balance  herself  in  a  standing 
posture,  when  the  door  opened  and  Angelo  entered. 

Naomi  heard  him  remove  his  hat  and  hang  it  upon  a  peg ; 
then,  after  a  moment,  heard  him  move  slowly  towards  the  win 
dow  ;  pausing  there,  with  his  back  half  turned  to  the  screen 
and  looking  abstractedly  at  the  statue,  Naomi  had  a  fine  oppor 
tunity  of  regarding  him  without  danger  of  being  seen. 

During  the  two  years  of  their  separation  he  had  grown  much 
taller,  and  his  form  had  assumed  more  of  the  firm  and  rounded 
outlines  of  manhood,  His  face  was  not  visible  to  Naomi ;  she 
could  only  see  the  light-brown,  clustering,  wavy  locks,  pushed 
negligently  behind  his  ear. 

Presently  his  attention  became  concentrated  on  the  statue. 
Taking  up  a  chisel  that  lay  near,  he  musingly  traced  the  already 
delineated  lines,  murmuring  aloud : 

"  It  is  in  vain,  in  vain  for  me  to  strive  to  realize  my  concep 
tion.  There  never  was  but  one  such  face ;  no  marble,  no  can 
vas,  no  anything  else  on  earth  will  ever  reproduce  it." 

"  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  slander  yourself  in  that  way,"  cried 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  165 

out  Naomi's  merry  voice,  and  with  one  agile  leap  she  extricated 
herself  from  the  innumerable  objects  that  obstructed  her  pas 
sage,  and  stood  before  Angelo,  joyously  holding  out  her  arms, 
her  face  beaming  with  glad  affection. 

He  let  his  chisel  fall,  and  staggering  back  two  or  three  steps, 
grew  as  white  as  the  marble  before  him.  Startled  into  gravity 
in  the  midst  of  her  almost  childish  joy,  she  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm,  "exclaiming : 

"  Why,  Angelo,  dear  Angelo,  did  I  so  startle  you  ?" 

He  mastered  his  emotion  in  a  moment,  though  the  hands  he 
laid  in  hers  trembled  convulsively;  and  when  she,  with  the 
effusion  of  her  frank,  innocent  love,  wound  her  arms  about 
him,  and  rested  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  he  stood  apparently 
apathetic,  making  no  movement  to  return  her  clasp.  She  saw 
it,  wondering  and  wounded.  Her  arms  dropped  off,  and  half 
turning  away,  she  said  : 

"Do  you  welcome  me  so  coldly,  Angelo,  when  you  have  not 
seen  me  for  two  years  ?" 

"  Coldly,  Naomi !  Coldly  ?  See  here,"  and  he  caught  her  hand 
and  placed  it  on  his  heart.  It  is  the  excess  of  joy — of  joy  so 
unexpected — that  stifles  me.  I  cannot  manifest  it;  it  is  too 
great  for  expression." 

Soothed  by  these  words,  Naomi  turned  again  towards  him, 
rested  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  steadily  regarding  him 
with  a  sweet,  tender  smile  upon  her  lips,  she  said  thoughtfully : 

"  Yes,  that  Face  has  matured.  There  is  still  the  old  dream- 
light  in  the  eyes,  Angelo,  but  there  is  more  of  energy  and  pur 
pose  developed  around  the  chin  and  mouth.  You  are  the  good 
ground  where  seed  is  never  wasted,  but  mtist  spring  up  and 
bear  fruit." 

"  Ground  that  only  your  hand  could  have  cultivated,  Naomi. 
There  is  something  in  me  that  rebels  against  harshly  dictated, 
arbitrary  laws ;  I  must  be  made  to  feel  and  recognize  within 
myself  the  truth  and  beauty  of  principles,  before  I  am  willing  to 
practise  them. 


166  NAOMI  TOREENTE: 

"  0,  Naomi,  how  happy  I  was  to  hear  of  your  triumph  in 
Paris  I  Was  it  not  grand  ?" 

"  Was  is  not,  indeed !  Do  you  know,  Angelo,  that  I  was  a 
little— just  the  kast  little  bit  timid  about  Paris ;  they  are  so 
independently  critical,  but  it  all  went  off  very  finely.  Do  you 
know  how  it  happens  that  I  am  here?" 

"  No ;  how  should  I  ?  I  should  as  soon  have  expected  to  see 
— well,  Victoria  herself,  as  to  have  found  you  in  my  studio  this 
morning." 

"  I  will  tell  you.  The  tenor  of  our  troupe  fell  ill,  and  I  was 
so  anxious  to  see  you,  that  I  solicited  leave  of  absence  for  three 
or  four  days,  and  here  I  am.  I  certainly  did  take  you  by  sur 
prise  when  I  jumped  from  behind  the  screen.  Did  I  not?" 

"  As  much  as  if  you  had  fallen  from  the  clouds.  But  you 
are  standing  all  this  while ;  how  neglectful  I  am.  There  is  your 
favorite  place  by  the  window  ;  and  here  is  a  chair  which  I  will 
make  clean  in  a  moment.  There !  Now,  here  on  this  bench  is 
a  seat  for  me.  Everything  here,  Naomi,  is  in  a  state  of  primi 
tive  simplicity  ;  you  must  excuse  it." 

"Everything  is  as  it  should  be  in  a  sculptor's  studio,  I  think. 
Oh,  but  I  did  laugh,  Angelo,  when  I  found  myself  huddled  in 
there  behind  the  screen,  among  such  a  medley  of  things  as  no 
one  ever  saw  before.  It  is  a  very  good  plan,  though,  to  have  a 
place  where,  as  Sir  Peter  Teazle  says,  '  we  can  put  away  things 
in  a  hurry.'  When  I  first  came  in  I  stood  admiring  this  statue, 
and  trying  to  imagine  who  it  was.  You  have  made  wonderful 
progress  in  your  art.  This  face  seems  to  breathe ;  one  would 
scarcely  be  surprised  to  see  her  open  her  lips  and  speak." 

Angelo  shook  his  head. 

"  It  does  not  satisfy  me  at  all.  It  is  Sappho,  and  I  want  to 
embody  in  her  face  the  sublime  inspiration  of  her  genius ;  but  I 
cannot  get  at  any  realization  of  my  idea.  Do  you  trace  any 
resemblance  in  the  face  to  any  one  you  ever  knew?" 

"No.  It  is  a  sublimely  ideal  face,  such  as  no  mortal  ever 
had.  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  167 

With  just  the  remotest  approach  to  a  smile,  Angelo  an 
swered  : 

"  Only  to  see  if  I  had  been  original  in  my  conception. 

"  Did  1  tell  you  in  my  last  letter,  Naomi,  that  I  had  several 
new  orders  for  busts  ?  You  see  I  am  getting  on  very  prospe 
rously  for  an  artist.  I  live  comfortably,  independently,  and  pay 
everybody.  I  shall  never  make  a  fortune,  that  is,  I  shall  never 
have  thousands  of  dollars  more  than  I  can  possibly  use  lying 
idle ;  but  fortune  is  only  valuable  to  give  happiness,  and  here 
in  this  little  bare  room,  where  the  hum  of  busy  life  reaches  me 
and  prevents  my  solitude  from  being  oppressive,  where  I  can 
see  the  sun-lighted  and  star-lighted  heaven,  surrender  myself  to 
my  imaginings,  and  strive  to  work  them  out  in  marble — why, 
there  is  no  one  happier  than  I,  and  I  envy  no  one." 

"  You  have  no  room  for  thoughts  of  your  absent  sister," 
Naomi  said,  a  little  reproachfully. 

"  No,"  he  answered  quietly,  looking  at  her  with  his  deep, 
steady  gaze.  "•  I  never  think  of  her  ;  she  is  a  living,  breathing 
presence,  inseparable  from  my  life." 

There  was  something  so  earnest,  so  almost  solemn  in  his 
subdued  tone,  that  Naomi,  moved  by  a  tender  impulse,  leaned 
forward  and  gently  kissed  his  brow.  Then  she  said  gaily  : 

"  You  have  no  engagements  this  afternoon,  have  you  ?  Well, 
then,  you  will  go  home  and  dine  with  me,  and  then  we  will  go 
to  the  opera  and  hear  La  Guicciomini,  like  two  provincials." 

It  was  beautiful,  it  was  touching,  this  almost  childish  abah- 
don  of  Naomi  in  talking  to  her  brother.  How  she  laid  aside 
her  pride,  her  stateliness,  her  dignity — all,  save  that  unconscious 
dignity  inherent  in  her  nature,  and  spoke  and  moved  with  the 
ingenuous,  innocent  glad-heartedness  of  a  girl  whose  heart  has 
never  for  an  instant  wandered  beyond  the  confines  of  her  home. 

As  she  had  proposed,  Angelo  went  home  and  dined  with  her, 
and  they  then  went  to  the  opera. 

Though  they  occupied  a  private  box,  and  Naomi  was  careful 
to  show  herself  as  little  as  possible,  yet  some  one  caught  a 


168  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

glimpse  of  her,  and  the  report  soon  circulated  that  La  Castadini 
was  in  the  house.  At  the  general  buzz  and  turning  of  opera- 
glasses  in  the  direction  of  her  box  that  followed  this  announce 
ment,  Angelo  laughed,  and  said : 

"You  see,  Naomi,  this  is  one  of  the  small  disadvantages  of 
celebrity." 

"Yes,"  answered  she,   "we  sigh  for  renown,  and  when  we 
have  obtained  it,  we  sigh  again  for  our  old  obscurity." 

"  And  yet  withal  it  is  doubtful  if  any  one  would  willingly 
return  to  it."  > 

When  they  parted  at  night,  Angelo  said  : 
"  I  am  at  leisure  to-morrow ;  let  me  come  and  see  you.      You 
cannot  like  to  scramble  up  the  long  stairs  to  my  little  cell." 

"  I  love  it,  Angelo.  It  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  that 
seems  like  home  to  me.  We  will  do  to-morrow  as  we  have  done 
to-day.  I  pass  the  morning  with  you,  and  you  the  afternoon 
with  me." 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  169 


CHAPTER  IY. 

EARLY  the  next  morning  Naomi  sent  Angelo  two  large  boxes, 
one  containing  paintings,  the  other  statuettes,  which  she  had 
collected  for  him  in  Italy.  They  were  all  rare  and  precious 
works  of  art,  which  she  had  selected  with  great  care. 

On  entering  his  studio  about  eleven  in  the  morning,  she 
found  him  in  a  perfect  rapture  of  admiration,  unpacking  the 
statuettes. 

"  Oh,  Naomi ;  dear,  good  sister  P'  he  cried  on  seeing  her,  "  how 
grateful  I  am  for  this  discriminating  remembrance ;  but  it  is  too 
much  ;  these  things  are  too  expensive." 

"  That  is  my  business,"  answered  she,  laughing  and  removing 
her  things.  Wearing  a  plain,  black  silk  dress,  edged  around 
the  throat  and  wrists  with  black  lace,  her  hair  a  la  Madonna,  and 
her  face  lit  up  with  pleasurable  excitement,  she  looked  so  young, 
so  sweet,  so  simple,  that  Angelo  forgot  his  statuettes  to  look  at 
her. 

"  Now,  do  you  know,  Angelo,  what  I  would  like  to  have  you 
do?  1  love  this  little  room;  it  is  just  right  for  a  workshop,  but 
you  ought  to  have  another — a  kind  of  reception  studio,  which 
you  could  adorn  to  your  taste.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 
-  "  It  would  be  almost  uninhabited,  for  I  live  where  my  work 
is ;  and  then,  I  can't  afford  it." 

"  Can't  afford  it !  People  can  afford  anything  when  they  have 
sisters  who  love  them,  and  who  are  not  poor." 

He  answered  with  a  gentle  gravity : 

"  No,  Naomi ;  dependence,  even  on  those  who  love  us  and 
whom  we  love,  enervates  and  degrades,  and  most  especially  a 
man. 


170  NAOMI  TORRENTE : 

"  I  owe  my  present  to  you.  I  shall  owe  to  you  whatever  I 
may  win  in  the  future.  Of  this  obligation  I  never  can  acquit 
myself,  nor  would  I  if  I  could  ;  for  it  is  sweet  to  me  to  feel  that 
I  owe  everything  to  you.  But  this  is  enough ;  it  would  be 
shameful  for  me  now  to  accept  aid  from  my  sister,  who  has  won 
all  she  possesses  by  her  own  genius  and  industry." 

"  Brave,  noble  Angelo,  I  admire  and  love  you !  You  exag 
gerate  a  little  on  the  right  side,  but  that  is  well.  May  I  ask  you 
where  you  intend  to  put  all  these  things  which  I  have  sent  here, 
it  seems  only  to  encumber  you  with  ?" 

"  Some  here,  some  in  my  bed- room." 

"  And  may  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Stoic,  where  you  lodge  ?" 

"  My  bed-room  is  there." 

"  There.  Where  ?"  exclaimed  Naomi,  turning  her  eyes  round 
the  room  in  astonishment. 

Angelo  laughed,  left  his  statuettes,  and,  crossing  the  room, 
took  down  from  its  nail  a  very  large  unframed  picture  which 
had  concealed  a  door,  which  he  now  threw  open,  and  motioned 
Naomi  to  enter. 

It  was  a  room  larger  than  the  studio,  furnished  with  great 
simplicity,  but  yet  with  perfect  neatness.  In  the  farthest  corner 
of  the  room  stood  a  small  camp  bedstead,  draped  with  pure  white. 
Beside  it  was  a  little  table  sustaining  a  gas  lamp  adjusted  for 
lighting ;  not  far  off  were  some  shelves  filled  with  books,  dis 
posed  in  symmetrical  rows,  and  beautiful  female  forms  in  plaster 
of  Paris  occupied  the  four  corners  of  the  room.  The  mantel 
piece,  too,  was  filled  with  statuettes,  and  it  might  have  been  this 
abundance  of  cold,  white  forms  that  lent  the  apartment  the  air 
of  virginal  purity  that  pervaded  it.  A  rosewood  writing  desk, 
her  own  gift  to  Angelo  in  former  days,  stood  on  a  table  near 
her ;  Naomi  picked  it  up,  and  carried  it  into  the  studio. 

"  Ah,  now,  Angelo,"  she  cried  gaily,  "  I  shall  find  out  all 
your  secrets ;  for,  it  is  hardly  possible  that  you  should  not  have 
some — Locked !  Now,  I  am  sure  of  it ;  when  people  lock  writing 
desks  it  is  a  certain  sign  that  they  have  something  to  conceal." 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  171 

• 

Angelo  laughed,  with  a  slight  flush  upon  his  cheek. 

"  You  may  have  the  key,"  he  said,  searching  for  it  in  his 
pockets. 

"  No  ;  I  was  but  jesting ;  though,  indeed,  it  would  not  be  sur 
prising  if  what  I  said  were  true." 

"  Art  is  my  mistress,  Naomi ;  the  only  one  that  I  shall  ever 
have." 

"Art  is  a  mistress,  Angelo,  that  will  only  make  you  appreciate 
more  the  charms  and  graces  of  an  earthly  one — for  it  is  not  all 
who  are  competent  to  artistically  appreciate  beauty.  Art  of 
herself  is  a  cold,  exacting  mistress." 

"  Is  it  you  who  say  that,  Naomi  ?  You,  who  seem  absorbed 
heart  and  soul  in  your  profession,  and  apparently  never  give  a 
thought  to  any  other  love." 

Naomi  stood  quite  still,  her  hand  resting  on  the  writing  desk, 
which  she  had  placed  upon  a  table ;  her  face  slowly  sobered,  and 
as  the  gay,  bantering  expression  left  her  eyes,  they  gradually 
took  that  fixed  inward  look  which  in  her  always  accompanied 
profound  and  melancholy  thought. 

"  Long  ago,  when  I  was  a  very  young  girl,"  she  said,  in  the 
monotonous  tone  of  retrospection,  "  some  one  asked  me,  if,  when 
I  reached  the  mountain-top  I  sought  to  climb,  I  would  not 
weary  of  the  solitude  that  so  far  removed  me  from  human  sym 
pathy.  I  said  no — I  thought  not,  then.  I  have  reached  it ;  it  is 
very  grand  and  beautiful ;  its  sense  of  freedom  is  very  sweet, 
but  ah,  it  is  cold,  sterile,  desolate  !" 

Angelo  had  approached  her  and  stood  listening,  leaning 
against  the  statue  of  Sappho.  H'.s  face  had  grown  unspeakably 
sad — a  quiet  sadness — but  all  the  more  profound  for  that.  He 
made  no  comment  on  her  words,  but  silently  watched  her  with 
some  unspoken  sorrow  in  the  depths  of  his  beautiful  dark  eyes. 
She  came  out  of  her  melancholy  reverie  in  a  minute  (they  were 
very  rare  with  her  in  these  days),  her  eyes  rested  affectionately 
on  Angelo,  and  she  moved  smilingly  to  his  side. 

"  I  feel  thus  sometimes;  only  sometimes,"  she  said,  cheeringly, 


172  NAOMI  TOEEENTE: 

u  when  I  am  far  away  from  you,  as  I  generally  am ;  when  1  am 
with  you,  dear  brother,  I  am  in  a  sunny  valley  where  the  flowers 
grow ;  and,  as  a  general  thing,  wherever  I  may  be  I  find  within 
myself  philosophy  enough  to  make  me  happy." 

He  clasped  the  hand  she  offered  him,  but  the  mournfulness 
did  not  leave  his  face.  After  a  pause,  he  said : 

"  There  is  a  change  in  your  face,  Naomi,  but  I  cannot  tell 
what  it  is.  You  look  in  excellent  health,  you  have  not  grown  a 
day  older,  and  yet  there  is  a  change." 

"  It  may  be  because  in  reality  I  am  not  so  well  as  formerly. 
Within  the  last  year  a  disease  of  the  heart  has  developed  itself 
in  me.  The  first  time  I  ever  felt  it  was  at  Milan.  It  was  while 
singing  one  night  to  a  crowded  house  that  I  lost  consciousness 
as  suddenly  as  if  I  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  and  fell  upon 
the  stage.  I  was  so  ill  that  I  was  unable  to  continue  my  rok, 
and  the  next  day,  on  sending  for  a  physician,  learned  that  I 
actually  had  disease  of  the  heart." 

"  Why,  how  have  you  dared  to  go  on  exposing  yourself  to  the 
excitements  of  your  profession,  Naomi,  knowing  that  any  moment, 
with  such  an  ailment,  a  violent  emotion  may  cause  your  death  ?" 

Angelo  was  very  pale,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  agitation 
as  he  spoke. 

She  laughed  lightly  : 

"I  shall  live  as  long  as  I  care  to.  Old  age  may  be  desirable 
for  those  who  have  many  ties,  many  duties  in  life  ;  but  for  me, 
believe  me  it  is  the  last  thing  I  should  wish.  Let  us  talk  no 
more  about  it — it  but  makes  you  melancholy,  and  there  is  no 
need  of  that,  for  I  am  very  well  now.  I  ordered  the  carriage  to 
come  early  to-day,  so  that  we  might  take  a  long  drive  before 
dinner,  and  it  is  already  very  near  the  hour." 

On  her  return  home  that  night  a  telegraphic  despatch  was 
handed  Naomi  from  her  Parisian  impressario,  requesting  her 
immediate  return.  It  made  but  the  difference  of  a  day  in  her 
original  intention,  yet  it  saddened  her,  and  still  more  the  sight 
of  Angelo's  face  on  hearing  the  announcement. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  173 

"  You  go  at  once,  then,  Naomi — this  very  morning?" 
"  Yes  ;  I  am  all  prepared.     You  know  I  am  accustomed  to 
these  sudden  summonses.     You  will  not  be  neglecting  engage 
ments  to  go  with  me  to  the  steamer?" 

"  No ;  but  if  I  had  a  thousand  they  should  yield  to  you." 
It  might  have  been  owing  to  the  thought  of  the  triumphs 
that  awaited  her  in  Paris  that  Naomi's  spirits  mounted  as  they 
neared  the  steamer.     Angelo  went  on  board,  and  lingered  till 
the  last  minute. 

"  Till  fall,  dear  brother,"  Naomi  said ;  "  it  will  not  be  long." 
He  received  her  good-bye  kiss  in  silence,  and  stood  upon  the 
street  waving  his  handkerchief  to  her  till  she  was  lost  in  dis 
tance.     As,   with  thoughtfully  bowed  head,  he  turned  home 
wards,  he  said  to  himself : 

"  There  was  regret  in  her  eyes,  but  her  voice  was  ringing  and 
joyous ;  and  she  said  it  would  not  be  long  till  fall.  Six  eternal 
months — not  long  /  not  long  1" 


174  NAOMI  TOKKENTE 


CHAPTEE  V. 

IT  is  difficult  for  time  to  pass  over  any  one  of  us,  even  over 
those  immured  in  the  unvarying  life  of  a  cloister,  and  leave  no 
trace  upon  the  mind  and  heart.  What,  then,  had  been  the 
changes,  or  rather  the  developments,  of  Naomi's  inward  life 
during  these  five  toilsome,  exciting,  and  eventful  years?  At 
the  outset  utterly  unprotected  and  unfriended,  her  first  great 
struggle  had  been  to  combat  in  herself  the  shrinking  sensitive 
ness  that  had  always  paralyzed  to  a  great  degree  the  natural 
energy  and  self-reliance  of  her  character.  Arming  herself  with 
a  cold  stoicism  foreign  to  her  nature,  and  silencing  oftentimes 
her  noble  pride  with  the  unanswerable  argument,  "  It  is  neces 
sary"  she  had  forced  herself  to  walk  steadily  along  her  way. 
Fortunately,  youth  and  beauty  inspire  men  with  an  involuntary 
sense  of  consideration,  which  saves  their  possessor  from  absolute 
harshness  and  insult,  yet  she  had  to  suffer  from  the  unconscious 
brutality  of  coarse,  hard  organizations,  who,  however  little  they 
might  wish  it,  could  do  nothing  without  wounding  her  delicacy. 
Many  a  time,  too,  had  she  seen,  with  a  cheek  flushed  with  the 
honest  indignation  of  a  sense  of  wrong,  presumptuous  ignorance 
take  rank  before  her,  as  some  great  flaunting  weed  overtops  and 
hides  an  exquisite  flower.  But  this  state  of  things  did  not  last 
long ;  her  genius  rapidly  emerged  from  its  shrouding  timidity — 
was  recognised,  appreciated  and  rewarded.  Through  all,  she 
had  the  great,  inestimable  advantage,  that  the  licentiousness 
that  pervades  the  stage  never  infected  her.  She  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  her  own,  that  immeasurably  removed  her  from 
•  its  contaminating  influences ;  and  her  enthusiastic  love  of  art 
and  fervent  worship  of  a  lofty  ideal  strengthened  her  to  lead  a 
life  of  vestal  purity.  Yes,  veritably,  of  vestal  purity  ;  for  it  was 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  175 

not  with  her  as  with  many,  a  struggle  between  sensual  thoughts 
and  desires  and  a  restraining  conscience,  but  the  perpetual 
though  unconscious  upward  striving  of  her  thought,  seeking  to 
live  in  purer,  more  spiritualized  regions.  By  a  strange  anomaly, 
she  was  in  this  respect  chaster  as  a  woman  than  she  had  been  as 
a  girl.  Endowed  with  an  impassioned  heart  and  voluptuous 
organization,  ardent  reveries  had  tormented  her  adolescence. 
Mrs.  Torrente  had  not  sufficient  thought  herself  to  be  able  to 
philosophically  instruct  her  child  on  this  subject ;  she  contented 
herself  with  teaching  her  that  evil  thoughts  came  from  the 
Tempter,  and  that  she  must  fly  from  them  ;  and  thus  Naomi 
found  herself  in  the  chaotic  darkness  in  which  the  young  are 
almost  always  left  by  the  development  within  them  of  an  irre 
pressible  instinct,  ignorant  as  they  are  of  the  holiness  of  the 
purpose  for  which  it  was  implanted  in  us,  and  equally  ignorant 
of  the  only  sentiment  that  can  elevate  and  sanctify  it  in  our 
relations.  Naomi's  brief,  impalpable  impression  of  love  had 
not  been  real  enough  to  ground  a  faith  upon  ;  and  so,  for  years, 
unguided,  save  by  the  ray  of  divine  light  within,  she  questioned 
with  herself.  She  never  could  be  satisfied  to  believe  that  the 
mere  ceremony  of  marriage  could  legitimize  and  consecrate 
what,  under  every  other  circumstance,  was  unpardonably  wrong. 
She  sought  eagerly  for  some  higher  sanctification,  but  in  the 
ignorance  of  her  inexperience  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to  form 
an  opinion.  It  was  this  intuitive  perception  of  the  true  that 
harassed  her  in  the  question  of  her  marriage,  and  it  was  at  last 
in  the  wholly  earthly  fire  of  this  false  union  that  all  that  wa*s 
gross  within  herself  had  burnt  utterly  out,  and  left  her,  in  her 
nobler  nature,  as  ardent,  and  as  pure,  too  as  flame. 

Fond  of  the  society  of  men,  preferring  it  infinitely  to  that  of 
women,  but  simply  because  she  found  in  it  more  intellectual 
congeniality  and  more  liberality  of  sentiment ;  fond,  too,  as  she 
ingenuously  confessed,  of  admiration ;  loving  the  animated  dis 
cussions  and  brilliant  flashes  of  wit  of  the  gay  suppers  where 
she  presided  like  a  queen ;  yet  there  were,  could  be,  no  tempta- 


176  NAOMI  TOBRENTE: 

tions  for  Naomi,  for  she  loved  not.  From  the  commencement 
of  her  theatrical  career  she  had  been  beset  with  offers  of  every 
description.  Young,  gay  men  of  the  world,  and  old  debauchees 
without  number,  had  made  her  alluring  though  dishonorable  pro 
posals  ;  and  some  few  men  of  station  and  wealth  would  gladly 
have  given  her  their  name  ,in  the  loyalty  of  their  respectful 
love.  To  the  former  she  would  reply  with  a  light  laugh,  that 
she  did  not  believe  in  love  (and  truly  she  did  not,  as  tliey  under 
stood  it ) ;  to  the  latter,  that  she  loved  her  liberty  too  well  to 
marry. 

For  a  time,  while  all  her  thoughts  were  necessarily  taken  up 
with  her  toil  for  reputation  and  independence,  she  was  proud 
and  happy  in  the  freedom  of  her  solitude  ;  but  the  day  at  length 
arrived  in  which,  these  objects  attained  in  a  degree  to  which  she 
had  never  dared  to  aspire,  the  void  within  made  itself  painfully 
felt ;  and  there  were  hours  when  her  soul  went  yearning  forth 
in  quest  of  the  unknown.  Then  she  might  have  said,  with  ideal 
Shelley,  of  the  Unattained  : 

"  To  thirst  and  fiijd  no  fill,  to  wait  and  wander, 
With  short  unsteady  steps,  to  pause  and  ponder, 
To  feel  the  blood  run  through  the  veins  and  tingle, 
Where  busy  thought  and  blind  sensation  mingle  ; 
To  nurse  the  image  of  unfelt  caresses, 
Till  dim  imagination  just  possesses 
The  half-created  shadow." 

Naomi  was  not  one  of  those  who  can  passively  consent  to 
accept  dogmas  without  any  positive  conviction  of  their  truth. 
It  was  an  absolute  necessity  of  her  being,  as  it  is  of  all  earnest 
natures,  to  form  a  creed  for  herself,  based  upon  her  own  highest 
conceptions  of  God,  and  of  right  as  compatible  with  His  attri 
butes.  To  this  she  had  come  by  insensible  degrees.  Educated 
an  Episcopalian,  and  carefully  instructed  by  her  mother  in  the 
principal  points  of  the  orthodox  faith,  she  had  received  these 
teachings  even  as  a  child  in  a  mood  half  reverential,  half  ques 
tioning  ;  but  finding  that  all  arguments  on  the  subject  confused 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A   WOMAN.  177 

and  pained  her  mother,  she  contented  herself  with  confining 
them  to  her  own  mind.  Lost,  bewildered,  as  she  sometimes  was 
by  her  vain  efforts  to  solve  to  herself  the  mystery  of  the  origin 
of  evil,  and  the  necessity  of  redemption,  she  never  questioned 
in  the  remotest  manner  the  existence  of  God.  Unsuspected  by 
others,  unknown  even  to  herself,  she  was  devotional  to  the  pro- 
foundest  depths  of  her  being ;  not  devotional  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  the  term,  for  she  loved  not  churches  nor  creeds, 
but  devotional  in  the  sense  that  her  soul  sought  God  with  fer 
vent,  longing  adoration  and  trust.  This  feeling  grew  and 
strengthened  in  her ;  and  long  after  she  had  in  her  heart  of 
hearts  lost  faith  in  the  doctrine  that  had  been  taught  her,  she 
persuaded  herself  that  she  believed  it,  clinging  to  it  partly  from 
the  force  of  habit,  partly  from  want  of  entire  confidence  in  her 
own  conclusions.  The  silent  conflict  went  on  for  years.  During 
her  married  life  she  progressed  but  little.  She  learned  to  doubt 
still  more,  but  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  tell  what 
she  did  believe.  It  was  in  a  freer,  happier  air,  with  a  clearer 
spiritual  vision,  that  a  strong  faith  imperceptibly  formed  and 
consolidated  itself  in  her  heart ;  and  this  it  was  : 

She  believed  in  God.  She  believed  that  in  his  very  essence 
he  is  love — pure,  strong,  infinite ;  and  that  we,  his  creatures, 
bearing  within  ourselves  a  greater  or  smaller  portion  of  divinity 
in  proportion  to  our  spiritual  development,  draw  nearer  to  him 
in  all  the  manifestations  of  love,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
and  in  its  beautiful,  harmonizing  influences  of  peace,  pardon, 
and  charity.  She  rejected  the  doctrine  of  the  atonement,  that  is 
to  say,  the  idea  of  an  awful  sacrifice  to  appease  the  ire  of  a 
revengeful  Deity ;  but  she  sat  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  with  the  ten- 
derest  reverence,  and  accepted  him  as  the  most  perfect  typifica- 
tion  of  God  that  has  ever  been  revealed  to  earth.  As  to  the 
rest,  she  had  faith  in  the  vital  might  of  Good,  and  consequently 
in  human  progress.  From  the  frailty  of  our  natures  we  may 
improve  very  slowly  as  individuals,  but  the  enlargement  of  the 

sphere  of  ideas,  the  clearer  perception  of  the  true  and  just  that 

12 


178  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

each  succeeding  age  most  assuredly  does  bring,  are  in  a  thousand 
places  quietly  working  out  great  results.  Naomi  knew,  when 
matured  judgment  had  tempered  her  enthusiasm,  that  all  steps 
in  advance,  to  be  permanent  must  be  gradual.  Ideas  cannot  be 
subjugated  by  force;  they  are  more  potent  than  all  the  arms  of 
our  material  world,  and  can  never  be  grasped  and  bent  to  the 
will.  In  all  ages  there  are  some  few  spirits  in  advance  of  their 
time,  who  can  accept  truth  at  once  in  every  new  development, 
no  matter  how  startling,  because  they  possess  the  keen  spiritual 
vision  to  discern  and  recognize  it;  but  all  progressive  ideas 
must  be  infused  into  the  common  mind  by  the  most  insensible 
degrees ;  and  those  who  see  and  know  must  be  content  to  cast 
the  seed  upon  the  winds,  and  let  it  find  root  and  flourish  where 
and  when  it  may. 

In  establishing  such  principles  and  throwing  out  from  her 
creed  so  much  that  is  usually  deemed  sacred,  Naomi  found  her 
self  obliged  to  deny  the  infallibility  of  the  Bible ;  not  with  any 
irreverence,  though,  for  she  deemed  the  Gospels  truly  Godlike 
in  their  general  spirit,  and  found  in  the  Old  Testament  many 
passages  of  inspiration;  but  she  plainly  saw  that  in  all  times 
and  among  all  people  every  religion  has  had  its  origin  in  the 
human  soul.  Why,  then,  should  she  set  before  the  instincts  of 
the  divinity  within  her  the  teachings  of  a  remote  and  less  en 
lightened  age  ?  Was  it  conceivable  that  spiritual  truth,  to  its 
fullest  extent,  had  been  revealed  to  man  then,  and  that  inspira 
tion  had  for  ever  died  out  of  the  world,  so  that  the  loftiest  future 
of  the  race  is  the  eternal  study  of  the  ancient' law  ?  Are  there 
— can  there  be  any  bounds  to  spiritual  knowledge  ?  Is  it  not 
as  illimitable  as  the  soul  ?  And  are  not  those  who  think  other 
wise  like  children  who  imagine  that  with  a  few  steps  they  can 
touch  the  horizon  ?  No  ;  the  true  mission  of  the  Bible  is  not 
to  serve  as  a  clog  upon  the  onward  tendencies  of  humanity,  but 
to  show  us  by  the  example  of  the  two  great  legislators  of  the 
world,  Moses  in  the  old,  and  the  blessed  Nazarene  in  the  new 
era,  each  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  his  nation,  that  it  is  not 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  179 

majorities  who  discover  truth,  but  great  master-spirits,  so  far 
in  advance  of  their  age  that  in  their  generation  they  are  but 
vaguely  comprehended.  Every  century  produces  thinkers, 
inspired  to  a  greater  or  less  extent ;  none  that  can  take  their 
place  beside  the  holy  martyr  of  Calvary,  but  yet  guides  upon 
our  way.  Inspiration  is  only  a  keen  perception  of  the  Just,  the 
True,  the  Beautiful — only  a  ray  of  God's  light  streaming 
through  the  darkness  of  the  world. 

And  yet,  with  all  our  pondering,  all  our  harassing  struggles 
with  the  hidden,  there  are  in  life  an  infinitude  of  things  that  we 
can  in  no  sense  understand  or  reconcile  with  any  opinions  we 
may  hold.  Naomi  felt  this  ;  but  she  brought  the  doubts,  and 
fears,  and  anguish  of  her  secret  heart,  and  left  them  humbly  at 
the  feet  of  Divinity,  walking  along  her  way  with  upturned  eyes, 
and  trusting  that  in  the  mysterious  Beyond  we  shall  see  more 
clearly,  shall  be  wiser,  better,  more  faithful  to  ourselves. 


180  NAOMI  TOREENTE  : 


CHAPTER  YL 

NAOMI  became  the  rage  at  Paris,  not  only  as  a  cantatrice,  but  in 
the  highest  circles  of  society,  in  which  her  curiosity  to  see  some 
thing  of  brilliant  Paris  life  led  her  to  mingle  more  than  was  her 
wont ;  and  everywhere  her  original  beauty,  her  unpretentious 
intellect,  and  the  noble  simplicity  of  her  manner,  created  a  sen 
sation.  Apart  from  this  society,  in  which  she  moved  more  as  a 
spectator  than  as  an  actor,  she  had,  as  usual,  her  more  imme 
diate  circle  of  friends,  chosen  from  among  literary  men  and 
artists  of  distinction,  with  whom,  in  the  freedom  of  intellectual 
abandon,  she  found  her  highest  pleasure. 

Shortly  after  her  return  from  London  she  hired  a  small  coun 
try-house  in  the  environs  of  Paris  ;  a  lovely  little  place,  already 
furnished,  and  surrounded  by  a  garden,  and  took  up  her  resi 
dence  there.  It  was  something  of  a  drive  to  and  from  the  Opera- 
House,  but  it  was  all  the  more  delightful  for  that.  What  tran 
quil  pleasure,  in  beautiful  nights  of  May  and  June,  to  roll  along, 
reclining  on  her  cushions,  by  the  glorious  moonlight,  or  the 
dimmer  but  not  less  poetical  radiance  of  numberless  stars !  And 
then  she  was  never  alone  on  her  return,  two  or  three  friends 
always  accompanying  her  to  sup,  and  enlivening  her  fatigue  by 
their  gaiety.  She  was  on  her  way  home  thus  one  night,  talking 
animatedly,  when  one  of  her  companions,  a  gentleman  for 
whose  mind  and  character  she  had  great  esteem,  said  suddenly : 

"  By-the-by,  Madame  Castadini,  have  you  ever  happened  to 
meet  in  society  a  Cuban  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Ameno  ?" 

Naomi  reflected  for  a  moment.  No;  not  that  she  remem 
bered.  ,  t 

"  Ah !  then  you  have  never  met  him,  for  he  is  not  a  person 
that,  once  seen,  would  be  easily  forgotten.  I  do  not  know  whe- 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  181 

ther  he  is  literary  or  not,  but  he  certainly  has  the  capabilities 
for  being  so,  for  he  has  rare  intellectual  power.  He  has  seen 
you  night  after  night,  and  wants  to  know  you,  and  I  have  pro 
mised  to  ask  your  leave  to  present  him.  He  belongs  to  the  first 
society,  and  is,  in  short,  a  person  with  whom  I  think  you  would 
be  pleased." 

"  Since  he  is  your  friend,  Monsieur  Gustave,  and  it  is  you 
who  wish  to  present  him,  I  shall  be  happy  to  receive  him. 
Bring  him  any  morning  before  I  start  for  rehearsal." 

Two  or  three  days  had  passed,  and  Naomi,  who  in  the  multi 
tude  of  things  that  engaged  her  attention,  had  forgotten  her 
engagement,  was  getting  into  her  Berlin  in  the  morning,  when 
she  saw  a  head  suddenly  project  from  a  carriage  rapidly  ap 
proaching,  and  a  moment  after  a  hat  vehemently  waved  up  and 
down  to  attract  her  attention.  Recognizing  M.  Gustave,  she 
stopped  short  and  laughingly  returned  the  salutation.  When 
the  carriage  drew  up  before  her  door,  M.  Gustave  leaped  out, 
and,  approaching  her,  said : 

"We  are  late,  Madame.  Be  unpitying;  inflict  on  us  the 
very  worst  of  all  possible  punishments — send  us  away  without 
a  word." 

"  O,  no,  I  shall  not,"  she  returned  ;  "  it  was  I  who  was  start 
ing  before  my  time.  I  have  still  a  few  minutes  to  spare,  and 
afterwards,  if  you  return  to  the  city,  I  can  offer  you  a  seat  in 
my  carriage." 

A  gentleman  had  alighted  meanwhile,  with  a  little  less  preci 
pitation  than  M.  Gustave,  and  the  latter,  turning  towards  him, 
now  presented  him  to  Naomi  as  Senor  Ameno.  Naomi  bowed, 
and  preceded  the  gentlemen  into  the  parlor  of  her  house. 

"  Senor  Ameno  speaks  French  with  perfect  fluency,  Ma 
dame,"  M.  Gustave  said,  when  they  were  seated.  "  I  mention 
this  because  I  know  not  if  you  are  acquainted  with  Spanish." 

u  My  father  was  a  Cuban,"  Naomi  answered,  with  a  gleaming 
light  in  her  eyes,  "and  Spanish  was  the  first  language  I  ever 
learned ;  but  we  will  speak  French,  M.  Gustave,  if  you — " 


182  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"O,  no,  no!"  he  interrupted;  "speak  Spanish,  I  beg.  I 
know  it  tolerably  well,  and  am  an  enthusiast  for  its  beauty." 

"  I  have  availed  myself  of  your  most  gracious  permission, 
Sefiora,"  Senor  Ameno  said,  in  his  own  harmonious  tongue,  "  to 
come  and  view  a  little  nearer  the  siren  that  has  entranced  me 
for  so  many  hours ;  but  indeed  I  did  not  expect  to  find  that,  in 
addition  to  her  many  other  charms,  she  possessed  for  me  the  very 
great  one  of  almost  belonging  to  my  own  land." 

Naomi  bowed  slightly  in  recognition  of  the  compliment,  and 
made  some  brief  remark,  just  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  continue 
the  conversation.  She  who  was  generally  so  voluble  in  ex 
pressing  her  thoughts  and  opinions,  found  herself  oppressed  by 
'a  new  and  inexplicable  sense  of  constraint.  This  might  have 
been  the  effect  of  Senor  Ameno's  rather  peculiar  manner,  which, 
though  perfectly  elegant,  was  marked  by  a  kind  of  heroic  im- 
periousness,  admirably  in  keeping  with  the  haughty  and  noble 
expression  of  his  face.  He  conversed  with  an  ease,  grace,  and 
brilliancy  which  Naomi  had  never  heard  equalled,  and  which, 
though  rather  apt  to  produce  the  impression  of  egotism,  was  yet 
exceedingly  charming.  Naomi  listened  like  a  pleased  child  to 
the  language  of  her  infancy  spoken  with  such  elegant  correct 
ness,  and  it  was  not  until  some  time  after  the  appointed  hour 
to  attend  rehearsal  that  she  recollected  herself,  and  rising,  re 
newed  her  invitation  to  the  gentlemen  to  take  a  seat  in  her 
carriage.  Her  polite  offer  was  accepted  with  pleasure,  and  they 
were  soon  whirling  rapidly  towards  Paris. 

Naomi  was  not  one  of  those,  found  even  among  the  most 
well-bred,  who  scrutinize  every  line  of  one's  face  and  form. 
She  was  content  at  first  with  the  general  impression  she  invo 
luntarily  received.  Thus,  for  instance,  without  having  examined 
Senor  Ameno's  features,  she  was  struck  with  the  statuesque 
beauty  of  his  countenance,  where  a  very  perceptible  expression 
of  arrogance  added  for  her  an  inexplicable  kind  of  charm.  She 
noticed,  too,  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction,  the  high-bred  yet 
manly  grace  of  his  movements  and  gestures.  She  spoke  but 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  183 

little  during  the  drive,  surrendering  the  conversation  to  the 
gentlemen,  who  chatted  gaily  until  they  arrived  at  the  theatre. 
There  Senor  Ameno  begged  permission  to  call  again,  which  was 
smilingly  granted  him,  and  they  separated. 

The  artistes  noticed  that  the  Prima  Donna  was  somewhat 
pre-occupied  during  the  rehearsal,  though  she  herself  was  en 
tirely  unconscious  of  any  such  thing.  Without  being  aware  of 
it,  she  was  recalling  certain  witty  expressions  and  droll  ideas 
expressed  by  Seuor  Ameno,  which  had  amused  her  by  their 
originality.  The  preparations  for  the  evening  performance, 
however,  soon  distracted  her  attention,  and  she  certainly  had 
not  given  this  gentleman  a  conscious  thought,  when  he  came 
two  or  three  days  after  to  sup  with  her.  He  was  as  brilliant  as 
the  first  day,  and  kept  the  table  in  continual  animation.  Naomi, 
too,  was  gay,  though,  owing  to  some  unaccountable  cause,  she 
found  it  impossible  to  address  her  conversation  directly  to  Seiior 
Ameno  without  being  instantly  tongue-tied  by  a  sudden  sense 
of  constraint ;  and  the  strangest  part  of  this  was  that  it  did  not 
cause  her  any  astonishment,  and  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
query  with  herself  as  to  the  reason  of  this  singularity.  One 
might  have  thought  that  the  gentleman  participated  in  the  feel 
ing,  for,  though  speaking  of  subjects  that  interested  her,  and 
evidently  courting  the  expression  of  her  opinion,  yet  he  rarely 
ever  glanced  at  her,  and  never  undisguisedly  directed  his 
remarks  at  her.  Naomi  could  only  explain  this  by  attributing 
it  to  a  want  of  due  consideration  for  her  intellectuality,  and  she 
was  so  accustomed  to  queen  it  everywhere  that  it  produced  a 
feeling  of  pique  and  irritation,  which  she,  however,  was  suffi 
ciently  mistress  of  herself  to  dissemble.  "  He  absolutely  acts," 
she  thought,  after  her  guests  had  gone,  "  as  if  it  were  too  great  a 
condescension  for  him  to  converse  with  me.  And  yet  if  I  am 
distasteful  to  him,  why  does  he  come  here?"  She  mused  on  this 
a  long  time  before  going  to  rest,  her  pride  more  galled  by  a  trifle 
so  impalpable  that  it  could  not  be  well  denned,  than  it  had  ever 
been  by  the  thousand  real  annoyances  of  an  artiste's  life. 


184:  NAOMI  TOEEENTE: 

There  was  a  matinde  the  next  morning.  The  opera  was  La 
Favorita,  and  the  house -was  crowded.  It  was  on  Naomi's 
second  entree  that  she,  who  rarely  ever  noticed  anything 
disconnected  with  her  rdZe,  saw  Senor  Ameno  enter  his 
box  in  company  with  a  party  of  people,  and  take  his  place 
beside  a  beautiful  and  exquisitely  dressed  girl.  Naomi  saw 
this  with  one  lightning-glance,  for,  conscientiously  averse 
to  having  her  attention  distracted  from  the  business  of  the 
opera,  she  turned  away  her  eyes  and  resolutely  refused  to  look 
again. 

On  her  way  to  her  carriage,  after  the  matine'e  was  over,  she 
met  M.  Gustave,  who  joined  her,  and  walked  by  her  side  chat 
ting  about  the  fine  house,  etc. 

"  Pray  tell  me,"  Naomi  said  suddenly,  "  who  were  those  peo 
ple  in  Senor  Ameno's  box  ?" 

"  Was  there  among  them  a  lovely  young  girl  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  dark  hair  and  eyes,  evidently  a  Cuban." 

"Ah!  that  is,  according  to  rumor,  Ameno's  betrothed;  the 
others  were  probably  her  parents.  She  is  some  kind  of  a 
distant  relative  of  his,  I  believe.  Her  name  is  Silva,  They 
are  going  to  travel  two  years  in  Europe,  and  then  return 
to  Cuba  and  be  married.  By-the-by,  how  do  you  like 
Ameno  ?" 

"  He  is  a  very  brilliant  man,"  she  answered,  in  a  tone  more 
resembling  dislike  than  indifference;  "  but  he  seems  to  be  de 
spotic  and  egotistical." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  I  acknowledge  that  he  is  haughty, 
but  yet  he  has  a  noble  heart.  As  to  his  intellect,  his  enthusiastic 
admiration  of  you  speaks  enough  for  that." 

Naomi  smiled,  but  the  smile  was  quietly  disdainful,  and  there 
was  a  cold,  hard  look  in  her  eyes.  She  got  into  her  carriage, 
bade  M,  Gustave  "  Good  morning,"  and  telling  the  coachman 
"home"  in  a  short  voice,  she  leaned  back  on  the  soft  crimson 
cushions  and  lowered  her  veil.  A  sudden  and  altogether  inex 
plicable  feeling  of  self  depreciation  had  fallen  over  her.  She 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  185 

was  disgusted  with  herself,  with  her  profession,  and  surround 
ings  ;  and  after  the  Berlin  had  rolled  on  for  a  few  rods,  she 
ordered  the  coachman  to  stop,  put  up  the  cover,  and  drive 
fast. 


186  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  Silvas  resided  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  in  the  house  of  a 
Cuban  friend  established  permanently  in  Paris.  Ameno  lived 
with  them  on  the  terms  of  intimacy  which  his  relation  to  Lola 
rendered  perfectly  natural  and  proper.  The  families  were  dis 
tantly  connected,  and  always  on  the  most  friendly  terms,  and 
Justo  had  known  Lola  from  her  infancy,  had  watched  her  gra 
dually  emerge  from  graceful,  promising  childhood  into  girl 
hood  radiant  with  beauty  and  happiness  ;  had  seen  her  eyes  rest 
on  him  with  an  expression  of  tenderness  no  one  else  had  power 
to  call  up ;  and  when  he  found  that  it  was  the  ardent  wish  of 
both  families  that  he  should  espouse  her,  it  was  no  wonder  that 
he  should  consider  himself  a  very  happy  man  in  the  possession 
of  so  much  youth,  loveliness,  and  love.  He  was  too  enthusias 
tic  an  admirer  of  beauty  to  be  uninfluenced  by  this  potent  spell 
in  Lola,  and  he  had  too  much  sensibility  not  to  be  moved  with 
gratitude  by  her  love,  given  to  him  with  such  entireness  that  it 
took  from  her  all  the  coquetry  natural  to  her  age  ;  yet  with  all, 
Justo  did  not  love  Lola ;  and  the  very  best  proof  of  this  was  that 
he  was  able  to  adduce  the  most  satisfactory  reasons  for  his  affec 
tion  for  her,  whereas  Love  will  set  before  you  every  imaginable 
reason  for  not  loving — tauntingly  allow  you  to  perceive  your 
folly  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  then,  tormenting  and  incorrigible 
imp  that  he  is !  haughtily  defy  you  not  to  love. 

It  is  as  strange  as  true,  and  would  seem  to  prove  that  in  this 
respect  man's  nature  Is  intrinsically  different  from  woman's,  that 
men,  even  when  engrossed  by  a  true  love,  are  susceptible  of 
temptation  from  passing  passions;  how  much  more  so,  then, 
must  a  man  be  in  whose  heart  no  such  holy  feeling  keeps  guard. 
Thus  Justo,  when  he  first  saw  Naomi,  had  been  carried  away 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  187 

by  her  beauty  and  genius.  Her  form,  which,  spite  of  the  rare 
delicacy  of  its  outlines,  breathed  a  voluptuousness  no  less  inebri 
ating  than  refined ;  her  face,  so  chastely  spiritual  in  repose,  and 
yet  where,  by  the  force  of  genius,  every  passion  found  its  play, 
bewildered  his  senses  and  unsettled  his  judgment;  in  a  word, 
inspired  him  with  a  violent  passion.  He  was  a  man  of  the 
world,  yet  with  far  more  heart  and  honor  than  men  of  the 
world  usually  possess,  and  he  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  to 
himself  that  the  consequences  of  this  feeling  might  very  possibly 
be  a  wrong  to  Lola ;  but,  argued  he,  it  would  not  be  an  unpar 
donable  wrong ;  for  he  realized,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  ardor 
of  his  feelings,  that  it  was  merely  a  fever  in  his  blood,  that 
would  have  its  course  and  leave  him  with  only  the  dream-like 
memory  of  its  delirium. 

Justo,  like  all  his  race,  had  a  great  contempt  for  artistes  apart 
from  their  profession.  Probably  this  general  prejudice,  greatly 
augmented  in  them,  is  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  Spanish  stage 
is  less  elevated  than  any  other;  and  he  had  little  or  no  confi 
dence  in  the  possibility  of  an  artiste's  virtue.  In  the  case  in 
point  there  came,  in  confirmation  of  his  opinion,  the  thousand 
contradictory  reports  that  were  in  circulation  in  society  with 
regard  to  Naomi.  Some,  and  perhaps  the  larger  part,  were 
inclined  to  believe  that  she  was  a  woman  of  spotless  life ;  others, 
again,  asserted  that  she  had  been  heard  to  publicly  express  the 
most  radical  opinions  of  social  questions,  such  as  a  disbelief  in 
the  sanctity  of  the  marriage  relation,  the  wish  for  a  more  inde 
pendent  position  for  woman,  etc.;  and  taking  this  in  conjunction 
with  her  free  way  of  life,  they  had  naturally  deduced  that  it 
was  impossible  for  a  young,  beautiful  woman  to  preserve  herself 
pure  in  the  midst  of  the  innumerable  temptations  that  beset  her 
at  every  step.  Justo  thought  the  same,  and  it  was  therefore 
without  any  compunction  of  conscience  that  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  investigate  and  decide  the  matter  for  himself. 

Two  days  had  elapsed ;  Naomi  was  alone  in  the  morning  in  a 
little  room,  half  boudoir  half  library,  where  she  read,  studied, 


188  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

and  in  fact  passed  almost  all  her  disengaged  hours.  It  was  an 
elegant  and  luxurious  little  place,  furnished  with  her  favorite 
crimson,  and  adorned  with  the  paintings  and  statues  that  she 
best  loved. 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  Naomi  was  reclining,  rather  listlessly,  on 
a  couch,  her  elbow  supported  by  its  arm,  her  chin  resting  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  summer  sky  that 
smiled  beyond  the  open  windows.  Her  face  was  thoughtful, 
but  not  sad.  There  was  less  of  the  calmness  of  its  habitual 
melancholy,  and  more  of  the  agitation  of  some  chagrin,  posi 
tive  though  perhaps  so  slight  as  to  be  unacknowledged  to 
herself. 

Her  reverie,  of  whatever  nature  it  might  be,  was  suddenly 
interrupted;  a  servant  tapped  and  announced  Senor  Ameno. 
Naomi  rose  with  a  slight  start,  gave  a  rapid  glance  at  the 
reflection  of  herself  in  a  large  mirror  opposite,  and  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  ordered  the  servant  to  show  the  gentleman 
up. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  exactly  with  what  feelings  Naomi 
heard  the  announcement  of  his  name,  and  advanced  to  greet 
him  as  he  entered.  Surprise,  pleasure,  and  an  indescribable 
kind  of  distrustful  dislike  were  so  inextricably  blended  as  to 
baffle  analysis.  It  would  seem,  however,  that  pleasure  predo 
minated,  for  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  in  a  tone  that 
sounded  sincere,  that  she  was  glad  to  see  him. 

"If  I  am  breaking  in  upon  you  at  an  inopportune  hour, 
Senora,"  he  said,  "  I  pray  you  to  tell  me  so  frankly." 

"Not  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,"  she  answered  ;  "on  the  con 
trary,  you  have  come  fortunately  just  in  time  to  interrupt  a 
reverie,  which  is,  you  know,  the  idlest  of  all  things." 

"  Truly  yes,  but  yet  sometimes  very  agreeable;  and,  after  all, 
when  a  thing  is  pleasant  why  should  we  examine  too  closely 
into  its  utility,  in  the  general  acceptation  of  the  term  ?  What 
is  the  utility  of  anything  any  further  than  some  pleasurable 
result  is  produced  for  somebody  ?" 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  189 

Naomi  smiled  at  the  whimsical  thought,  and,  finding  herself 
more  at  ease  than  she"  had  hitherto  been  in  Justo's  presence, 
entered  with  spirit  into  the  conversation.  They  spoke  of  Cuba, 
and  she  was  delighted  to  learn  that  he  was  in  secret  an  ardent 
patriot. 

"  At  home  I  do  not  express  my  opinions  with  this  freedom," 
he  said,  "  because  it  would  only  compromise  me  and  my  family, 
without  being  of  the  slightest  real  benefit  to  my  country. 
There  is  not  yet  sufficient  unanimity  of  sentiment  among  the 
Cubans ;  but  the  day  that  Cuba  be  in  good  earnest  revolu 
tionized,  that  day  will  see  me  fighting  for  her  independence, 
asking  no  prouder,  happier  fate  than  to  sacrifice  my  life  in  her 
cause." 

Naomi's  eyes  kindled : 

"  Do  you  remember  the  lines  of  your  own  sublime  Here- 
dia: 

"  Vale  mas  &  la  espada  enemiga 
presentar  el  impaVido  pecho, 
que  yacer  de  dolor  en  un  lecho, 
y  mil  muertes  muriendo  sufrir. 

Que  la  gloria  en  las  lides  anima 
el  ardor  del  patriota  constante, 
y  circunda  con  halo  brillante 
de  su  muerte  el  momento  feliz." 

Justo  sighed,  and  as  though  the  subject  were  painful  to  him, 
rather  abruptly  changed  the  conversation,  which  flowed  on  for 
an  hour  in  a  brilliant,  uninterrupted  stream.  When  he  took 
leave,  he  found  with  astonishment  that  the  time  had  flown  away 
delightfully,  without  his  having  for  a  moment  thought  of  utter 
ing  a  word  of  gallantry.  During  the  entire  day  he  found  it 
impossible  to  banish  Naomi  from  his  thought;  her  image 
floated  before  him,  her  voice  rang  in  his  ears,  and  again 
and  again  he  mused  upon  the  import  of  every  word  she  had 
uttered. 

Naomi,  left  alone,  pulled  the  bell,  ordered  the  carriage,  and 


190  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 

repairing  to  her  dressing-room,  commenced  her  toilet.  She  felt 
impelled  by  a  new  and  irresistible  force  to  continuous  movement. 
What  thoughts  were  busy  in  her  brain  !  What  complication  of 
undefined  feelings  striving  at  her  heart  1 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  191 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

HAD  adulation  so  spoiled  you,  Naomi,  that  you  could  find  no 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  a  man  whose  assiduous  visits  proved 
that  you  were  held  in  high  esteem,  but  yet  whose  lips  never 
breathed  one  word  to  indicate  aught  beyond  the  simplest  friend 
ship  ?  If  not,  why  was  it  that  at  times  you  almost  hated  him  ? 

And  you,  Justo,  wha,t  had  become  of  the  boldness  of  the 
man  of  the  world  ?  Why  were  you  pale  and  tremulous  in 
Naomi's  presence  ?  And  why  did  you  speak  of  everything  in 
existence  except  the  one  theme  that  occupied  all  your  thoughts  ? 
Ah  I  there  was  a  wondrous  revolution  here.  From  an  every 
day  passion  Justo  had  passed  insensibly  into  a  higher  atmo 
sphere,  where,  it  is  true,  passion  exists  in  all  its  intensity,  but 
passion  purified,  idealized,  until,  as  a  German  critic  beautifully 
says  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  "  sense  itself  becomes  soul."  Yes, 
Justo  loved  Naomi. 

And  here  commenced  the  great  struggle  of  his  life — a  struggle 
between  love,  duty,  and  pride — all  the  more  torturing  because 
it  was  entirely  interior  and  unshared.  He  was  bound  to  Lola 
by  every  tie  of  honor  and  gratitude ;  could  he  break  away 
— blighting  in  its  sweetest  spring  her  fresh,  budding  exist 
ence?  And  then,  again,  what  could  Naomi  be  to  him? 
Should  he  strive  to  take  her  from  her  untrammelled  position, 
where  she  was  courted  and  honored,  to  place  her  where  she 
would  meet  alone  the  supercilious  smiles  and  cold  recognitions 
of  those  who  in  their  shallowness  felt  themselves  immeasurably 
her  superiors  ?  How  could  he  outrage  the  prejudices  of  his 
family  and  race — in  fact  his  own  ? 

Borne  away  by  his  feelings  to  such  an  extent  that  he  was 


192  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

unable  to  fly  her  presence,  he  yet  had  sufficient  self-control  to 
impose  silence  upon  their  expression ;  and  he  was  the  more 
strongly  urged  to  this  inasmuch  as,  spite  of  the  self-love  which 
continued  success  had  engendered  in  him,  he  was  extremely 
doubtful  of  Naomi's  love.  It  was  no  longer  question  of  a 
caprice — a  liaison  lightly  entered  into  and  as  lightly  quitted — 
but  a  great,  serious,  soul-moving  sentiment,  which,  terminate  as 
it  might,  could  not  but  leave  ineffaceable  traces  upon  his  heart. 

They  were  sitting  alone  one  morning.  The  conversation  had 
taken  a  philosophical  turn,  and,  passing  from  one  subject  to 
another,  they  came  at  last  to  speak  of  marriage.  Justo  took 
advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  see  if  Naomi's  opinions  were  as 
peculiar  as  represented. 

"  Among  you  Protestants,"  he  said,  "  divorce  is  admitted ; 
that  is,  divorce  with  the  right  to  marry  again.  Do  you  believe 
in  this  ?" 

"Do  you  think  it  wiser,"  Naomi  answered,  with  a  quiet,  sad 
smile,  "to  separate,  yet  still  remain  bound?  Do  you  find  any 
utility  in  this  outward  bond,  which  means  nothing  when  it 
ceases  to  symbolize  the  spiritual  one  that  constitutes  the  only 
true  union  ?" 

"  But  we  believe  that  marriage  is  a  sacrament,  a  union  conse 
crated  before  God  by  one  of  his  ministers,  and  consequently 
indissoluble." 

"  In  my  opinion  the  consecration  of  marriage  is  the  sentiment 
that  hallows — not  the  ritual  performed  by  a  mortal  as  fallible  as 
ourselves.  And  then  what  does  your  sacrament  amount  to  ? 
It  is  not  so  solemn  and  inviolable  that  it  cannot  be  done  away 
with  in  fact ;  for,  after  a  separation,  what  remains  of  it  ?  No 
thing,  except  the  theory  of  a  fidelity  which  I  am  inclined  to 
think  is  in  the  majority  of  cases  very  poorly  carried  out." 

"  Admitting  that  marriage  ought  to  be  dissoluble,  your  sys 
tem  is  still  but  little  less  imperfect  than  ours,  for  there  are  a 
thousand  things  that  might  induce  people  to  desire  divorce,  that 
do  not  come  within  the  jurisdiction  of  the  law." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  193 

"  Doubtless.  People  are  afraid  of  innovations,  and  move 
step  by  step,  like  children  feeling  their  way  in  the  dark.  It  is 
well  so.  I  will  tell  you  honestly  that  in  the  abstract  I  am  of 
Shelley's  opinion,  and  do  not  believe  in  the  necessity  of  any 
outward  arbitrary  bond  in  the  union  of  the  sexes.  When  two 
love  there  needs  no  force  to  keep  them  together ;  and  to  remain 
in  such  relations  without  love  is  a  violation  of  the,  eternal  prin 
ciple  of  right.  This  opinion  of  mine,  rather  too  frankly  ex 
pressed,  has,  no  doubt,  laid  me  open  to  a  great  deal  of  miscon 
struction.  I  do  not  care  for  that,  in  general,  but  I  wish  you  to 
understand  me  rightly.  This  is  only  an  abstract  opinion.  I 
know  well  that  no  such  theory  can  be  practised  in  our  time. 
Humanity  must  understand  itself  better,  have  more  faith  in 
itself,  before  it  can  be  submitted  to  the  working  of  its  own  inhe 
rent  laws.  Above  all,  women  must  have  more  resources  for 
pecuniary  independence.  I  don't  mean  that  they  should  be 
independent  in  marriage;  that  is,  I  think,  incompatible  with 
their  special  mission  ;  but  simply  that  they  should  not  be  forced 
by  want,  as  they  so  often  are  in  our  social  system,  to  enter  into 
distasteful  relations,  or  else  subject  themselves  to  a  life  of  labor 
so  little  remunerative  as  to  render  existence  a  penance.  With 
out-  this,  freedom  of  divorce,  far  from  being  an  advantage  to 
women,  would  be  their  greatest  curse ;  for  they  would  then 
inevitably  become  mere  articles  of  merchandise,  handed  about 
from  one  owner  to  another.  Don't  think  me  dogmatical,  but  I 
really  do  believe  that  in  the  question  of  the  true  relation  of  the 
sexes,  it  is  women  who  must  give  the  law.  Their  instincts,  in 
this  particular  at  least,  are  purer,  truer  than  men's,  and  their 
faith  far  more  abiding." 

"  Ah,  Senora,  the  world  will  never  be  pure  enough  for  the 
realization  of  such  a  Utopia !  Society  would  be  in  a  constant 
state  of  anarchy;  there  could  be  nothing  stable.  Men  and 
women  once  set  free,  would  be  borne  away  by  every  new 
caprice,  which  they  might  magnify  into  a  sentiment." 

"  You  forget  that  all  laws  have  their  origin  in  ourselves.     Do 

13 


194:  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

you  think  it  less  easy,  less  a  point  of  honor  and  conscience,  to 
be  faithful  to  ourselves — faithful  to  the  law  of  God  within  us — 
than  to  obey  harsh,  arbitrary  codes,  originated  in  an  age  of 
greater  ignorance  ?" 

"  You  argue  ably,  I  admit.  It  is  not  at  all  dangerous  for  a 
woman  like  you  to  have  such  opinions.  But  take  two  people 
without  your  intellect  and  will,  bound  by  ties  which  you  grant 
should  be  respected,  at  least  as  a  matter  of  expediency ;  let 
them  meet  others  more  congenial  to  them,  love,  and  think  as 
you  do,  and  what  would  be  the  consequence  ?" 

"  The  consequence,  I  imagine,  would  be  the  same  with  the 
majority  of  people,  whatever  their  opinions  might  be.  For 
myself,  I  conceive  the  sentiment  of  love  to  be  infinitely  superior 
to  its  passion ;  and  I  can  form  no  idea  of  the  possibility  of 
desiring  aught  that  be  not  for  the  highest  good  of  the  one 
beloved," 

Justo  sat  in  silence  for  several  minutes.  Without  any  very 
earnest  convictions  on  these  subjects,  he  was  naturally  of  en 
larged  and  liberal  views,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  him 
self  the  force  and  justice  of  Naomi's  reasoning.  With  some 
new  power  of  perception  he  comprehended  for  the  first  time  all 
the  elevation  of  a  nature  which,  separated  by  want  of  faith  from 
the  guidance  of  the  conventions  that  rule  the  world,  was  pure 
and  strong  enough  to  be  an  inviolate  commandment  to  itself. 
His  love,  augmented  a  thousand  fold  by  his  increased  esteem, 
throbbed  at  his  heart  with  mighty  power,  urging  him  with  an 
impulse  almost  irresistible  to  fall  at  her  feet,  casting  every 
opposing  consideration  to  the  winds,  and  tell  her  how  madly, 
and  yet  how  reverentially  she  was  loved.  Bewildered,  thrown 
entirely  from  his  balance  by  the  fierce  contention  of  his 
vehement  emotions,  he  rose,  and  stood  holding  in  his  the 
hand  she  had  extended  to  take  leave.  It  was  one  of  those 
palpitating  instants  in  which  time  seems  to  us  to  stand  still 
and  wait  breathlessly  for  the  decision  of  our  destiny.  Naomi 
had  left  -her  hand  in  his  full  a  minute  before  she  was  aware 


THE  HISTORY  OP  A  WOMAN.  195 

of  it;  then,  with  burning  cheek  and  downcast  eyes,  she 
drew  it  hastily  away.  The  smallest  possible  point  of  time 
more,  and  the  flood  of  .passion  would  have  overflowed  his 
lips,  but  her  sudden  movement  dashed  back  upon  his  heart 
the  raging  passion- wave.  Another  minute  and  he  had  entered 
his  tilbury,  and  was  driving  headlong  towards  Paris. 


196  NAOMI  TOBRENTE: 


CHAPTER  IX 

DAT  was  fast  merging  into  night,  and  the  mysterious  shadows 
of  the  hour  so  wrapt  the  Silvas'  drawing-room  that  at  first  sight 
it  appeared  untenanted,  though  on  a  sofa,  in  one  of  the  furthest 
corners  of  the  room,  robed  in  her  light,  flowing  drapery,  reclined 
the  form  of  Lola  Silva,  her  fair,  young  head  drooping  languidly 
and  her  face  half  buried  in  a  cushion,  already  saturated  with  the 
tears  that  still  fell  fast  and  warm  from  her  eyes.  She  knew  not 
how  long  she  had  been  there,  forgetful  or  heedless  of  everything 
save  the  pain  within.  She  lay  moaning  like  a  grieved  child,  as 
in  truth  she  was. 

For  weeks  her  jealous  suspicions  had  been  aroused  by  Justo's 
frequent  absence  and  continual  pre-occupation  of  mind.  She 
had  tried  to  question  him,  but  he  had  skilfully  evaded  answer 
ing  ;  had  gently  reproached  him,  and  he  had  seemed  not  to 
hear.  At  last,  unable  any  longer  to  endure  the  torture  of  sus 
pense,  she  employed  a  young  and  agile  slave  of  her  father  to 
secretly  follow  him,  and  ascertain  what  or  who  it  was  that  thus 
lured  him  from  her  side.  The  answer  was  brought  back  that 
the  young  master  went  almost  every  day  to  the  residence  of  La 
Castadini.  Lola  had  barely  strength  enough  to  hear  this  with 
apparent  calmness,  and  then  she  had  fled  to  hide  the  anguish  of 
her  soul  in  solitude. 

Purposeless,  nerveless,  conscious  only  of  suffering,  she  still 
lay  there,  when  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  Justo  entered. 
Closing  the  door  behind  him,  he  traversed  the  apartment 
with  agitated  steps,  without  observing  Lola,  and  sank  as  if 
exhausted  into  a  fauteuil  by  one  of  the  windows.  He 
had  quitted  Naomi  that  morning  with  a  reeling  brain  and 
a  heart  swollen  to  suffocation;  and  all  the  rest  of  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  197 

day,  go  where  he  might,  strive  as  he  might  to  fly  from 
the  thought,  he  had  repeated  to  himself  incessantly,  with 
all  the  delirium  of  ardent  passion:  "I  love  her!  I  love 
her !  I  love  her  with  every  thought  of  my  soul,  with  every 
pulse  of  my  being!  Oh,  to  say  adieu  to  her  in  that  cold 
way,  when  I  so  longed  to  snatch  her  to  my  heart !  To  pass 
only  a  cold,  ceremonious  hour  with  her,  when  I  could  wish  to 
live  and  die  by  her  side  1" 

Lola  had  recognized  his  step  in  the  hall,  and  when  the  door 
opened,  eagerly  raised  her  head ;  but  seeing  him  pass  to  a  seat 
with  his  entirely  abstracted  air,  she  uttered  a  low  sob,  and  burst 
into  a  fresh  passion  of  tears.  At  her  stifled  exclamation,  Justo 
raised  his  head,  and  his  eyes  wandered  anxiously  around  the 
darkened  room  till  he  caught  sight  of  her ;  then  he  rose  with  a 
start,  and  hastily  approaching,  said,  with  that  almost  womanly 
tenderness  which  contrasted  so  beautifully  with  the  haughtiness 
of  his  nature: 

"  Lola,  dear !  alone,  and  in  darkness !     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  trying  to  steady  her  voice,  and  averting 
her  pale,  tear-stained  face ;  "I  am  a  little  nervous  and  sad,  that 
is  all." 

"  Eouse  yourself,  dear.  See,  it  is  already  time  to  dress  for 
the  opera.  This  is  the  last  night  of  Ernani,  and  it  would  never 
do  to  miss  it — to  fail  to  hear,  perhaps  for  the  last  time,  the — " 
he  hesitated  ;  the  very  mention  of  her  name  oppressed  his  heart ; 
and  he  added,  in  a  trembling  voice  :  "  all  the  fine  artistes  of  this 
troupe." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  go,"  she  said  falteringly. 

"  It  will  do  you  good ;  you  will  feel  immeasurably  better. 
Come,  Lola,  as  a  favor  to  me  ?" 

Too  gentle  to  resist  entreaties,  and  especially  from  Justo, 
she  yielded,  rose,  and,  encircled  by  Justo's  arm,  walked 
to  the  door;  there  she  paused  an  instant,  as  if  expecting 
some  little  mark  of  love  from  him,  but  it  came  not.  How 
could  he,  loyal  nature,  feign  passion  here,  when  heart  and 


198  NAOMI  TORBENTE: 

brain  were  teeming  with  the  wildest  love  for  another.  He 
gently  pressed  her  hand,  and  thus  suffered  her  to  go.  An 
hour  after,  he,  Lola,  and  Mrs.  Silva  were  in  their  box  at 
the  opera-house. 


THE  HISTOEY  OF  A  WOMAN.  199 


CHAPTER  X. 

FROM  the  moment  of  parting  with  Justo  in  the  morning,  an 
unaccountable  weight  had  fallen  over  Naomi.  The  presage  of 
some  impending  sorrow  seemed  to  lie  heavy  at  her  heart ;  and  it 
was  with  listless  steps,  and  frequent  and  long  sighs,  that  she 
prepared  herself  for  the  evening's  performance.  She  could  not, 
as  usual,  identify  herself  with  her  role ;  time  dragged  wearily, 
and  she  'was  relieved  and  glad  when  it  was  all  over.  Desiring 
above  all  things  quietude  and  rest,  and  therefore  anxious  to 
avoid  all  encounter  with  friends,  she  hurriedly  assumed  her 
own  attire,  and  stole  unobserved  to  her  carriage.  M.  Grustave 
and  some  other  friends  reached  the  spot  in  search  of  her  some* 
ten  minutes  after  she  had  left  Paris  behind. 

At  home,  Naomi  found  the  supper  table  set  in  her  little  par 
lor,  to  the  left  of  the  hall,  a  refreshing  breeze  blowing  in"  the 
long,  open  windows  from  the  garden,  and  the  light  of  the  chan 
delier  stealing  with  a  soothing  softness  through  its  alabaster 
globes. 

Sinking  languidly  into  a  fauteuil,  she  said  to  the  servant : 

"  Remove  these  things,  lower  the  light  a  little  more,  and  then 
you  can  go  to  bed." 

She  was  silently  obeyed,  and  then  left  alone  in  one  of  those 
moods  in  which,  without  being  in  the  least  inclined  to  sleep,  one 
likes  to  be  perfectly  at  ease;  and  finding  in  the  lateness  of 
the  hour  a  guarantee  of  solitude,  Naomi  slowly  unwound  the 
gauze  scarf  from  about  her  face  and  neck,  unbound  her  belt, 
and  removing  the  fastenings  from  her  hair,  shook  it  loosely 
about  her ;  then,  with  one  arm  thrown  above  her  head,  over  the 
back  of  her  chair,  she  sat,  still  oppressed  by  an  undefined  gloom, 


200  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

gazing  dreamily  out  the  window  opposite.  The  wind  murmured 
softly  among  the  bushes  planted  on  either  side  of  the  casement, 
sometimes  wafting  their  fragrant  blossoms  into  the  room ;  and 
the  moon,  now  and  then  breaking  forth  from  the  clouds  that 
portended  rain,  sent  down  showers  of  light  upon  their  quiver 
ing  leaves.  Suddenly,  without  the  slightest  sound  of  steps  or 
rustling  of  drapery,  a  dark  figure  intercepted  the  light  in  the 
open  space  left  in  the  centre  of  the  window  by  the  shrubbery. 
The  silence  and  loneliness  of  the  hour,  and  this  mysteriously 
gliding  form,  froze  Naomi  with  a  terror  new  to  her ;  but,  natu 
rally  brave,  she  recovered  herself  in  a  moment,  and  bounding 
to  her  feet  with  a  suppressed  cry,  made  resolutely  two  or  three 
steps  in  advance.  At  the  same  instant  the  figure  leaped  lightly 
into  the  room,  and  throwing  from  about  it  a  large,  black  mantle, 
revealed  to  Naomi's  astonished  eyes  the  face  and  form  of  Lola 
Silva.  She  wore  her  opera  dress  of  silk  and  lace,  and  diamonds 
flashed  amid  the  flowers  wreathed  in  her  hair  and  resting  on  her 
bosom.  She  was  as  beautiful  and  as  pale,  tremulous,  and  tear 
ful  as  some  poor  tempest-shaken  flower.  She  said  in  Spanish, 
drawing  a  step  nearer  Naomi,  with  clasped  hands  and  a  timid, 
almost  supplicating  air : 

"  Ah  !  Senora,  pardon  me — pardon  me  for  coming  into  your 
house  in  this  way.  I  saw  your  window  open  to  the  ground,  and 
that  you  were  here  alone,  and  thought  I  could  enter  without 
being  seen  by  your  servants." 

Mute  and  motionless  as  a  statue  Naomi  stood,  with  a  mag 
netic  perception  of  the  object  of  this  strange  visit  gnawing 
fiercely  within  her. 

The  young  girl's  youth,  beauty,  and  grace ;  the  expression  of 
her  eyes,  half  suffused  with  tears;  her  deferential  manner,  and 
the  appealing  tones  of  her  voice,  ought  to  have  roused  every 
generous  instinct  of  Naomi's  magnanimous  nature ;  but  far  from 
this,  she  experienced  an  aversion  that  was  almost  hatred,  and 
which  .was  too  bitter  to  be  in  the  least  disguised.  She  said 
coldly,  drawing  herself  haughtily  up : 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  201 

"  "Will  you  inform  me,  SeQorita,  to  what  I  owe  the  honor  of 
a  visit  from  an  entire  stranger  at  this  extraordinary  hour  ?" 

"  You  will  think  me  wild — mad.  Well,  perhaps  I  am  ;  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  I  must  speak  to  you.  Justo,  Sefiora,  he  is 
mine — his  time,  his  thoughts,  his  love  have  been  mine  ever 
since  I  have  memory.  Oh,  do  not  take  him  from  me !  You 
have  fame,  and  beauty,  and  unlimited  admiration ;  leave  me 
him — all  I  ask — all  I  love  !" 

"  Girl !"  Naomi  answered,  taking  a  step  towards  her,  with 
such  a  look  of  wrath  and  scorn  on  her  face,  and  an  air  so 
almost  menacing  that  Lola  shrank  back  in  terror,  "  your  lover 
is  nothing  to  me ;  but  if  he  were,  do  you  think  that  I  would 
yield  him  to  your  weak  tears  ?  Your  love  !  What  would  be 
the  love  of  a  child  like  you  compared  to  the  love  of  a  strong- 
souled  woman,  whose  heart  had  matured  in  suffering  ?  For  you 
there  would  be  forgetfulness  of  disappointment,  and  other  loves ; 
but  such  a  sentiment  would  so  entwine  itself  with  every  fibre  of 
my  being,  that  it  could  perish  only  by  uprooting  that.  What ! 
Have  you  so  little  pride  that  you  would  stoop  to  beg  a  heart  ? 
I  tell  you  again  your  lover  is  nothing  to  me ;  but  if  he  loved  me, 
and  I  him,  he  would  be  mine,  not  yours,  and  I  should  take  him." 

"But  you  do  not  love  him — you  have  said  you  do  not  love 
him,"  pleaded  Lola,  a  gleam  of  joy  breaking  through  the  grief 
and  fear  of  her  face.  "  O  !  thank  you,  thank  you  a  thousand 
times  for  saying  that !" 

"  You  need  not  thank  me,"  Naomi  replied,  in  an  unchanged 
tone  ;  "  I  want  no  gratitude  to  which  I  have  no  title.  I  make 
no  sacrifice  for  you — and  I  would  make  none." 

A  wonderful  contrast  those  two  women  presented — Lola 
bending  almost  supplicant  and  more  tremulous  with  happiness 
now  than  she  had  been  with  anguish  a  few  minutes  before,  and 
Naomi  erect,  haughty,  unrelenting  as  death. 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Lola  picked  up  her  mantle, 
and  winding  it  about  her,  again  and  with  uncertain  steps  drew 
near  Naomi. 


202  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"SeQora,"  she  said,  "I  know  that  I  have  shocked,  offended, 
insulted  you,  by  coming  to  your  house  in  such  a  way  and 
at  such  an  hour.  It  was  a  delirium — truly,  truly,  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  doing.  If  you  have  ever  loved,  and  feared 
to  see  the  loved  one  wrested  from  you,  you  can  understand 
what  I  have  suffered  to-day,  and  pity  and  pardon  me.  Can 
you  not?  Will  you  not?"  and  she  held  out  her  little  trem 
bling  hand.  But  Naomi,  lividly  pale,  recoiled  from  her 
touch. 

"  Senorita  Silva,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  full  of  scorn  that 
but  for  its  inseparable  melody,  it  would  have  been  harsh, 
"  let  me  tell  you  that  /  might  suffer,  might  die,  but  there 
could  be  no  agony  great  enough  to  induce  me  to  bare  my 
heart  to  a  proud  rival's  scorn.  It  is  enough  ;  I  am  weary, 
and  need  rest." 

With  a  look  of  wonder  and  pain  Lola  turned,  passed 
swiftly  and  silently  through  the  room  and  out  the  window, 
and  disappeared  into  the  darkness.  t 

Like  a  wild  storm  unchained  among  the  mountains,  Naomi 
raged  up  and  down  her  room  for  hours,  her  bosom  heaving,  her 
eyes  flashing,  her  dark  hair  floating  in  the  night^breeze.  Out 
raged  in  her  pride,  where  she  was  so  keenly  alive  to  a  wound, 
tortured  by  a  new  and  uncomprehended  pain,  could  her  rash, 
desperate  will  have  worked  its  wish  that  night,  she  would  have 
spurned  Lola  from  her  path  as  something  she  loathed  too  much 
to  touch,  and  have  hurled  Justo  and  herself  into  the  blackness 
of  annihilation. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  203 


CHAPTER  XL 

MEANWHILE  Lola's  carriage,  whirling  along  at  a  tremendous 
pace,  brought  her  in  a  few  moments  to  her  own  door.  A  soli 
tary  light  gleamed  in  the  facade  of  the  house,  and  she  saw  with 
a  rapid  glance,  as  she  alighted,  that  it  shone  in  Justo's  room. 
She  pressed  a  doubloon  into  the  coachman's  hand,  with  a  mean 
ing  glance  and  laying  her  finger  on  her  lip.  The  negro  bowed, 
and  with  a  significant  gesture  indicated  that  she  was  understood 
and  would  be  obeyed ;  and  Lola,  entering  the  house  and  ascend 
ing  the  stairs,  paused  breathless  and  with  a  wildly  beating  heart 
at  Justo's  door.  For  an  instant  she  hesitated,  restrained  by 
timidity  and  maiden  shame,  but  the  strength  of  her  impulse 
conquered,  and  she  tapped  gently.  His  voice,  in  that  low, 
monotonous  tone  so  eloquent  of  heart-sadness,  bade  her  "  come 
in."  She  obeyed,  and  for  the  first  time  crossed  the  threshold  of 
her  betrothed's  apartment. 

It  was  the  largest  of  the  three  rooms  that  formed  his  suite, 
and  was  used  by  him  as  a  study  and  reception-room.  It  was 
elegantly  furnished,  but  without  luxury.  There  were  some 
fine  paintings  on  the  walls,  and  the  light  fell  from  a  chandelier 
of  rare  workmanship  upon  a  table  covered  with  books  and 
papers,  beside  which  Justo  was  seated,  his  back  towards  the 
door,  his  elbow  resting  on  the  table,  and  his  head  pensively 
bowed  upon  his  hand. 

Lola  hesitatingly  advanced,  but  he  did  not  move  or  turn  ;  and 
in  a  voice  so  low  and  quivering  that  it  was  almost  inaudible, 
she  said : 

"  Justo  I"- 

He  fairly  bounded  from  his  chair,  turning  upon  her  a  face  of 
the  blankest  amazement. 


204  NAOMI   TORRENTE  : 

"Lola!  Why,  what  in  the  name  of  Heaven  are  you  doing 
here — and  in  that  dress  ?  Your  satin  slippers  are  stained  and 
covered  with  dust ;  where  have  you  been  ?" 

He  asked  the  question,  but  he  had  already  read  the  truth  in, 
her  agitated  face  and  disordered  dress,  in  the  cold,  trembling 
hands  she  laid  in  his,  bending  her  head  over  them  and  bursting 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  Where  should  I  have  been,"  she  murmured  through  her 
sobs,  "  but  to  the  house  of  the  woman  who  is  luring  you  from 
me?" 

•'La  Castadini,  Lola?  It  cannot  be!  What  to  do  ?  What 
to  say  ?  To  what  purpose  ?" 

"  To  find  out  for  myself  how  matters  were ;  to  tell  her  that 
you  were  mine.  0  !  Justo,  you  will  see  her  no  more ;  the 
proud,  insolent  woman,  how  she  talked  to  your  Lola,  as  if 
she  and  not  I  had  been  the  superior — telling  me  that  if  you 
loved  her,  and  you  were  aught  to  her,  you  would  be  hers,  not 
mine,  and  she  should  take  you  from  me." 

His  pale  face  flushed,  and  a  vivid  gleam  shot  from  his  eyes. 

"  Did  she  say  that,  Lola  ?     Did  she  say  that  ?" 

"  She  said,"  continued  Lola,  hurriedly,  seeing  with  a  woman's 
quickness  the  mistake  she  had  made,  "  that  you  were  nothing  to 
her;  and  she  said  it  as  proudly  and  disdainfully  as  a  queen. 
Justo,  I  know  that  you  love  me  ;  it  was  only  caprice  that  was 
leading  you  away  from  me.  But  have  you  the  right,  are  you 
willing,  to  pain  me,  your  Lola,  your  betrothed,  for  such  a 
woman  as  La  Castadini  ?" 

With  a  darkening  face,  and  almost  pushing  her  from  him,  he 
said,  haughtily : 

"  La  Castadini  is  the  purest  woman  that  I  have  ever  known. 
What  right  have  you  to  asperse  the  character  of  an  innocent 
woman  ?" 

"  I  care  not  what  she  is !  Let  her  be  what  she  may,  only 
promise  me,  Justo,  that  you  will  see  her  no  more.  It  rests  with 
you,  for  she  has  said  again  and  again  that  you  are  nothing  to  her." 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  205 

He  held  her  off  at  arm's  length ;  his  breath  came  pantingly, 
and  he  murmured,  in  a  broken  voice  : 

"  Lola,  do  not  ask  me  that  /" 

"  I  must  ask  it,  and  you  must  grant  it  to  me.  Look  at  me, 
Justo  I  Am  I  not  the  same  Lola  that  you  once  so  loved  ?  Will 
you  sacrifice  my  happiness,  perhaps  my  life,  to  a  passing  fancy 
for  a  woman  who  cares  no  more  for  you  than  for  any  other  of 
her  thousand  admirers  ?" 

Proud,  strong  man  as  he  was,  his  pride  and  strength  were 
fiercely  shaken  by  the  conflict  within.  He  did  not  care  to  hide 
it,  and  he  could  not  have  done  it  had  he  wished.  There  was 
perfect  silence  for  at  least  five  minutes.  Lola  still  stood  droop 
ing  before  him,  and  he  could  feel  her  tears  fall  fast  and  warm 
upon  his  hands.  Nevertheless,  who  shall  say,  love  is  such  a 
mighty  ruler  ?  possibly  the  recollection  of  Naomi's  words,  which 
Lola  had  astutely  persisted  in  repeating,  weighed  more  in  deter 
mining  him  than  the  consideration  of  duty.  Gradually  his 
brow  relaxed,  and  his  curved  and  haughty  mouth  assumed  the 
firm  lines  that  indicate  a  fixed  resolve.  Gently  encircling  her 
waist  and  drawing  her  to  him,  he  raised  her  head,  and  said, 
looking  her  steadily  in  the  eyes : 

"  Lola,  I  promise.     I  will  see  her  no  more." 

"  Justo !  my  Justo !  Mine  only  once  more  1"  and  with  a  great 
burst  of  joyous  emotion  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom. 

With  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  he  softly  stroked  her  hair,  as  if 
to  soothe  a  grieved  child,  pondering  on  the  unrealizable  import 
of  those  words :  he  would  see  her  NO  MORE  ! 

"  Lola,"  he  said  at  length,  "  the  clock  points  to  three.  Ima 
gine  what  the  consequences  would  be  if  by  any  chance  my 
valet  should  come,  or  your  voice  should  be  recognized  here  in 
my  room  at  this  hour.  Let  me  beg  you  to  retire  at  once.  For 
get  all  that  has  happened  to-night,  and  rely  on  my  promise." 

Smiling,  though  still  agitated,  and  blushing  at  his  words,  she 
suffered  him  to  lead  her  to  the  door,  received  upon  her  brow 
his  calm,  almost  fraternal  kiss — and  was  gone. 


206  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

When  the  door  closed  after  her,  he  bowed  his  face  in  his 
hands,  a  low  groan  burst  from  his  oppressed  heart,  and  he  mur 
mured,  passionately : 

"  Naomi  I  oh,  Naomi  1 " 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SHE,  Naomi,  who  had  never  been  approached  by  men  of  any 
appreciation  without  receiving  the  tribute  of  their  homage  ;  she, 
to  have  tamely  permitted  the  repeated  visits  of  a  man  who, 
plighted  to  another,  could  have  no  other  interest  than  to  study 
with  the  curiosity  of  intellect  a  woman  who,  his  rapid  percep 
tions  taught  him,  stood  apart  from  her  sex ;  she  to  have  been 
taken  to  task  by  his  girl-love,  and  beneath  her  own  roof! 
When  the  tempest  in  her  soul  had  to  some  degree  subsided,  her 
proud  indignation  still  remained;  and  she  found  consolation 
only  in  the  thought  that  at  least  it  was  all  over  now. 

If  we  ever,  in  the  whirl  of  violent  emotion,  stopped  to  analyze 
what  we  feel ;  if  passion,  in  the  intensity  of  its  sway,  did  not  so 
completely  blind  us  to  everything  but  itself,  Naomi,  usually  so 
severely  just  in  her  sentiments,  might  have  paused  and  looked 
with  astonishment  at  the  exaggeration  and  injustice  of  her  pre 
sent  feelings.  In  sober  truth,  what  had  there  been  to  rouse  her 
thus?  Justo  had  solicited  permission  to  visit  her,  and  it  had 
been  accorded  him.  He  had  treated  her  ever  with  the  most 
profound  respect,  speaking  always  of  general  or  philosophical 
subjects,  of  which  she  loved  to  converse ;  and,  knowing  his 
engagement  to  another,  she  could  but  honor  the  delicacy  which 
prohibited  his  uttering  a  word  of  gallantry  to  her.  Again, 
what  marvel  that  Lola,  the  impetuous  young  Creole,  should 
misunderstand  these  frequent  visits,  and  suffer  herself  to  be 
borne  away  by  a  jealous  impulse?  Naomi,  her  senior  in  years, 
and  so  immeasurably  in  advance  of  her  in  experience,  should 
have  regarded  her  childishness  with  the  kind,  pitying  smile  of 
superior  wisdom — not  with  this  galled,  chafing  heart,  this  burn 
ing  thirst  after  something  she  herself  knew  not  what. 


208  NAOMI   TORRENTE  : 

Two  days  had  passed  when  Naomi  entered  the  opera-house  to 
sing  La  Traviata  for  the  last  time  that  season.  On  stepping  on 
the  stage,  involuntarily,  as  was  indeed  her  unconscious  custom,  her 
eyes  sought  Justo's  box.  The  silken  curtains  were  drawn  very 
far  back  and  looped,  and  Naomi  saw  with  a  sudden  chill  that  it 
was  entirely  empty — that  box  where,  for  so  many  weeks,  with 
out  the  intermission  of  a  single  night,  she  had  seen  Justo's  face 
kindle  with  enthusiastic  admiration,  the  only  applause  he  ever 
rendered  her  ;  and  from  which,  at  the  end  of  the  last  act,  a 
bunch  of  rare  flowers,  tied  up  seemingly  with  his  own  hand,  had 
been  thrown  at  her  feet.  Those  flowers  !  she  had  placed  them 
in  vases  apart  from  others,  it  was  true,  but  she  had  seen  them 
die  unheedingly,  unconscious  that  they  were  of  more  value  to 
her  than  any  other  of  her  innumerable  trophies  of  triumph ;  but 
on  her  return  home  that  night  she  sought  her  boudoir,  and  there, 
in  a  little  vase  of  crystal  and  gold,  she  found  his  last  offering, 
somewhat  paled  but  still  beautiful.  She  sat  down  beside  the 
table  where  it  stood,  leaning  her  head  upon  her  hand,  and  con 
templated  it  for  a  long  while.  The  exquisite  perfumed  blossoms, 
culled  evidently  with  infinite  pains  and  carefully  bound  together 
with  a  ribbon,  looked  almost  as  though  they  might  have  been 
chosen  emblematically.  Emblematically  !  Of  what  ?  She  dis 
missed  the  absurd  idea  with  a  contemptuous  shrug  of  the  shoul 
ders,  but  she  tended  the  flowers  day  after  day  to  prolong  their 
life,  and  when  at  last  they  had  neither  color  nor  perfume,  she 
laid  them  gently,  almost  tenderly  away. 

It  was  after  the  lapse  of  some  few  days,  when  indignation 
had  died  away  and  a  sorrowful  calm  succeeded,  that  from  the 
depths  of  Naomi's  soul  an  awful  sense  of  desolation  welled  up 
and  spread  itself  like  a  vast,  lowering  cloud  over  all  the  face  of 
existence.  It  came  stealing  along  so  insensibly  that  she  was 
not  aware  of  it  until  it  was  upon  her  in  all  its  intensity ;  and 
then,  with  all  her  power  of  self-analysis,  she  was  mazed  and 
bafflled  by  the  development  of  a  feeling  which,  undreamed  of 
till  now,  suddenly  asserted  itself  with  irresistible  might.  There 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  209 

is  a  tale  somewhere  of  an  alchymist  who  found  the  wonclrous 
stone,  but  knew  not  that  he  had  held  it  in  his  grasp  till  it  had 
gone  from  him  again  for  ever ;  and  this  might  serve  to  illustrate 
Naomi's  feelings  when,  as  by  a  flash  of  revelation,  she  compre 
hended  all  she  had  unknowingly  possessed  in  her  brief,  strange 
intercourse  with  Justo  Ameno.  She,  who  had  seen  him  time 
and  time  again  recognizing  in  herself  nothing  particular  beyond 
the  constraint  with  which  he  had  always  inspired  her,  not  sure 
even  that  she  liked  him,  now'  stood  aghast  at  the  contemplation 
of  life  reft  of  his  presence,  his  voice,  his  full,  penetrating  gaze. 
Naomi  was  no  willing  self-deceiver.  Ungrateful  as  the  task 
might  be,  she  never  shrank  from  looking  realities  steadily  in  the 
face  ;  and  argue  arid  marvel  as  she  might,  she  was  constrained  to 
yield  before  the  incontestable  fact  that  every  aspiration  of  her 
soul,  every  passionate  impulse  of  her  heart  which  had  only 
gathered  strength  in  its  long  repression,  centred  in  the  individu 
ality  of  this  man.  Neither  could  this  be  a. delusion,  for  these, 
with  the  experience  of  twenty-five  years,  are  rare ;  and  again  it 
was  precisely  in  absence — absence,  the  destroyer  of  illusions  and 
the  infallible  test  of  the  nature  and  truth  of  all  sentiments,  that 
this  love  had  declared  itself. 

Taking  into  account  the  modifications  of  character  produced 
by  the  difference  of  education  and  circumstances,  there  was  a 
wondrous  affinity  between  these  two  beings,  and  Naomi  com 
menced  to  be  indistinctly  conscious  of  this.  She  recalled  now 
the  strong,  proud,  fierce  points  of  his  nature,  which  had  once 
inspired  her  with  a  kind  of  rebellious  aversion,  with  adoring 
admiration  ;  for  the  storm,  the  whirlwind,  the  cataract,  all  that 
is  terrifically  sublime  in  nature,  captivated  her  poetic  ima 
gination  ;  and  it  is  in  these  ardent,  and  at  times  ungovernable 
characters,  that  the  most  immense  capacities  for  tenderness  and 
devotion  are  found ;  as,  in  the  physical  world,  it  is  the  same 
wind  that,  raging  in  the  furious  blast,  uproots  trees  and  lashes 
the  ocean  to  fury,  and  sighs  through  the  orange  grove,  or  gently 

caresses  the  frail  flowers. 

14 


210  NAOMI  TORRENTE  I 

Naomi  lived  over  again,  in  thought,  every  hour  she  had 
ever  passed  near  Justo,  calling  ug  with  all  the  avidity  of  her 
aroused  heart  the  words,  and  tones,  and  looks  of  those  interviews, 
and  striving  to  wrest  from  little  things,  which  at  the  time  had 
escaped  her  as  nothings,  some  indication  of  covert  tenderness. 
Then  giddy  and  faint  with  the  emotion  it  awakened,  she  re 
membered  their  last  interview,  the  thrill  of  unacknowledged 
yet  ineffable  pleasure  with  which  she  had  found  him  near  her, 
felt  his  breath  upon  her  cheek,  arid  trembled  beneath  his  burn 
ing  glance.  0  !  it  seemed  to  her  now,  in  recalling  that  moment 
of  most  eloquent  silence,  while  he  had  held  her  hand  in  his, 
that  the-  very  atmosphere  about  them  magnetically  breathed 
of  passion.  Had  it  been  only  an  illusion  born  of  the  ardor  of 
her  own  feelings  ?  Strangely  there  grew  up  within  her  a  hope  — 
to  her  reason  an  unwarranted  and  insensate  hope — that  she  was 
loved,  and  that  he  would  come  and  tell  her  so  with  his  dear  lips 
once,  only  once — it  was  all  she  craved,  all  the  felicity  she  dared 
to  ask  of  Heaven. 

No  word  of  her  husband's  death  had  ever  reached  her,  and  she 
had,  therefore,  no  right  to  believe  herself  free  from  the  con 
ventional  bonds  that  forbade  her  contracting  any  other  lawful 
alliance.  Recognizing  in  herself  that  entire  abandonment  of 
her  own  will  to  that  of  another,  which  is  the  inseparable  accompa 
niment  of  perfect  love  ;  unable  to  form  any  conception  of  the 
possibility  of  resisting  any  wish  of  Justo  ;  knowing  that  had  he 
said  to  her :  "  Naomi,  I  love  you — I  will  leave  all  for  you — be 
mine!"  the  answer  would  have  sprung  to  her  lips  as  spontane 
ously  as  breath :  "  My  home  is  by  your  side — I  have  no  other 
in  all  the  universe — there  is  nothing  that  I  could  do  for  you 
that  would  be  a  sacrifice — /  belong  to  you,  wholly  and  solely-  - 
dispose  of  me — yet,  with  all,  she  never  in  her  wildest  reveries 
dreamed  of  being  granted  such  supreme  bliss.  She  prayed  with 
most  earnest,  most  inexpressible  longing  to  know  that  she  was 
loved,  that  was  all.  He  was  bound  to  another  ;  well,  'she  would 
strive  to  forget  that.  Let  the  distance  of  the  poles  divide  them. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  211 

She  would  go  upon  her  way  solitary,  but  not  alone — full  of  the 
thought  of  him,  sustained  and  comforted  by  the  immortal  memory 
of  the  one  rapturous  hour  in  which  she  had  palpitated  in  his  arms, 
and  heard  from  his  lips  the  divine  words  :  "  I  love  you  !"  Upon 
her  path,  however  far  removed  from  his,  would  be  his  watching 
eyes;  at  every  casual  mention  of  her  name  his  heart  would 
secretly  throb,  and  at  the  mysterious  twilight  hour,  which  they 
both  so  loved,  they  would  steal  apart  from  all  the  world,  and 
send  their  thoughts  through  space  in  search  of  each  other. 

The  operatic  season  closed,  and  she  was  relieved  and  glad. 
For  nights  the  only  real  thing  to  her  had  been  that  empty  box, 
mocking  her  like  a  phantom  of  lost  and  unappreciated  joy.  She 
was  glad,  too,  when  the  increasing  heat  sent  people  pleasure- 
seeking  out  of  Paris,  and  delivered  her  from  the  necessity  of 
entertaining  and  trying  to  converse  and  appear  amused,  when 
everything  looked  to  her  as  blank  and  soulless  as  the  painted 
figures  of  a  show. 

Justo,  she  knew,  was  still  in  Paris,  but  she  never  met  him ; 
though  with  the  vague,  unconfessed  hope  that  she  might,  she 
took  many  long  walks  and  drives.  Then  arose  the  bitter  reflec 
tion  that  even  should  they  encounter  each  other,  a  formal  saluta 
tion  would  be  the  most  their  acquaintance  authorized,  and  this 
cruel  incongruity  of  their  actual  relations,  and  her  hidden  feelings, 
goaded  her  with  a  sense  of  wrong  and  injury. 

After  an  absence  of  some  hours  from  home,  with  what  a  beat 
ing  heart  would  she  return ;  with  what  eager,  trembling  hands 
turn  over  letters  and  cards,  and  interrogate  the  bouquets  sent, 
some  anonymously,  some  with  names  attached!  Alas!  she 
always  finished  with  the  sinking  heart,  the  pale  brow,  the  long- 
drawn,  exhausted  sigh  of  a  disappointment  ever  new,  and  ever 
increasing  in  bitterness. 

And  so  clinging  tenaciously  to  that  hope,  as  dim  and  distant 
as  the  farthest  star  that  sends  its  feeble  ray  through  space,  the 
time  wore  on,  wore  on — oh !  how  wearily ! 


212  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IT  is  near  midnight.  Angelo  is  alone  in  his  studio,  lighted 
only  by  the  radiance  of  a  glorious  summer  moon  that,  stream 
ing  in  through  the  curtainless  windows,  falls  with  a  weird  effect 
upon  the  still,  white  forms  that  people  the  room.  The  young 
sculptor  sits  upon  a  bench  in  front  of  the  statue  of  Sappho  ;  his 
hat  lies  negligently  at  his  feet  as  if  he  had  just  entered  from 
the  street ;  and  his  listless  attitude  and  fixed  gaze  indicate  the 
profound  abstraction  of  his  thoughts.  His  right  hand  rests  on 
an  open  letter  lying  on  the  window-sill,  a  paragraph  of  which 
has  given  rise  to  his  thoughtful  mood ;  but  his  mind  has  wan 
dered  from  it  now,  and  all  his  past  rises  before  him  like  a  vast 
panorama  which  the  eye  traverses  at  one  sweep.  Coming  back, 
with  the  shadow  of  the  dark,  desperate  hours  of  his  life  upon 
him,  he  takes  the  letter  and  reads  again  the  part  that  has  so 
interested  and  perplexed  him.  This  it  is  : — 

"  Angelo,  am  I  so  peculiar  as  to  stand  apart  from  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  ?  Is  rny  destiny  to  be  as  exceptional  as  my  nature? 
I  sometimes  think  that  some  of  us  are  born  to  suffer ;  created 
expressly  to  show  how  much  the  heart  can  bear.  Dear  brother, 
I  would  that  I  were  with  you !  Your  hand  in  mine  this  day — 
this  hour  would  be  to  me  an  indescribable  comfort.  Why  was 
I  not  contented  to  remain  when  I  was  last  by  your  side  ?  I 
have  fame  enough,  wealth  enough  ;  why  did  I  not,  then,  re 
nounce  the  stage,  and  find  happiness  in  watching  your  growing 
fame  as  you  have  watched  mine  ?  But  I  shall  see  you  in  the 
fall,  Angelo,  and  we  shall  not  meet  to  part  again  so  soon  as  we 
have  hitherto." 

All  the  rest  of  the  letter  is  characterized  by  Naomi's  usual 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  213 

tender  and  unselfish  tone,  but  in  these  few  sentences  an  utter 
heart-anguish  too  poignant  to  be  altogether  silenced,  bursts 
forth.  "  "What  is  it  ?  What  can  it  be  ?V  he  thinks,  as  he  reads  it 
over  and  over  again,  pausing  to  weigh  each  word  that  breathes 
such  bitter  pain.  "  Love  ?  But  how  should  love  make  her  suf-  - 
fer  ?  "Who  is  there  that  would  not  be  the  proudest,  the  most 
blessed  of  mortals  at  possessing  such  an  inestimable  treasure  as 
her  heart  ?"  With  a  long  sigh  he  refolds  the  letter,  and  places 
it  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat.  Then  moved  by  an  irresisti 
ble  impulse,  he  falls  at  the  feet  of  his  cold,  mute  Sappho,  and 
gazes  earnestly  into  her  face,  as  though  he  would  fain  read  there 
the  secret  of  her  prototype.  Alas  I  the  melancholy,  ardent 
poetess  looks  past  him,  seeking  through  space  her  beloved  one. 
The  moonbeams  shine  upon  his  long,  fair  hair,  upon  his  face  of 
almost  womanly  loveliness,  and  show  the  tender  light  of  his 
dark  loving  eyes.  Presently  he  gently  clasps  the  statue-face, 
his  burning  lips  touch  with  a  shudder  her  pure,  cold  brow,  and 
two  great  scalding  tears  slide  suddenly  from  his  eyes  and  fall 
upon  the  upturned  face. 


214  NAOMI  TOEREXTE: 


CHAPTEE  XIV. 

FALL  had  come.  The  Silvas,  on  the  eve  of  quitting  Paris  for 
the  continent,  had  gone  to  a  brilliant  reception ;  and  Justo, 
declining  to  accompany  them  on  the  plea  of  indisposition,  was 
alone  in  their  drawing-room,  pacing  the  floor  with  slow  steps, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  him, 'and  his  head  pensively  bowed  on 
his  breast. 

For  two  months  Lola  had  been  supremely  happy.  Justo  had 
bravely  kept  his  word  ;  he  had  not  seen  Naomi ;  had  not  written 
to  her ;  had  tried,  0 !  with  what  effort,  not  to  think  of  her. 
Not  to  think  of  her  I  As  well  might  he  have  striven  with  his 
presumptuous  will  to  stop  the  current  of  his  blood  as  to  banish 
from  his  brain  that  vital  thought ;  and  on  the  pale  brow,  in  the 
dim  eye,  and  painful  compression  of  the  firm  lip,  might  be  read 
the  traces  of  his  vain  struggle  with  that  marvellous  power  which 
is  sweeter  than  liFe,  and  mightier  than  death. 

He  had  been  within  reach  of  her,  had  breathed  the  same  air, 
and  this  had  been  a  sort  of  poor  consolation  ;  but  now  even  this 
was  to  be  denied.  On  the  morrow  he  was  going  to  put  hours  on 
hours,  and  miles  on  miles  between  them.  As  the  thought  crossed 
his  mind  for  the  thousandth  time  he  was  seized  with  an  irresisti 
ble  yearning  to  look  upon  her  once  more,  to  hear  her  voice,  to 
speak  to  her — not  mere  idle,  empty  words,  but  to  breathe  to  her 
the  thoughts  that  thronged  upon  him — the  feelings  that  filled 
his  heart  to  bursting.  He  did  not  think  with  her  that  this 
would  be  happiness  enough.  Men  are  rarely  sufficiently  ideal 
for  such  a  conception,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would,  in 
some  degree,  alleviate  his  misery.  O  !  to  have  those  glorious 
eyes,  as  spiritual  as  stars,  shine  on  him  once  again !  To  listen 
to  that  voice  of  purest  melody  I  To  breathe  for  one  moment 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  215 

the  intoxicating  air  that  surrounded  her !  He  paused  suddenly 
in  the  agitated  walk  into  which  these  reflections  had  hastened 
him,  clasping  with  both  hands  his  throbbing,  burning  brow. 
And  Lola,  and  his  promise !  "  Let  it  go !"  he  said,  with  a 
furious  gesture,  as  though  it  were  a  tangible  thing  that  he  could 
rend  to  atoms;  "  to  Lola  I  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  my  life ;  it 
is  enough,  and  I  will  snatch  one  moment  of  joy  in  the  very  face 
of  fate!"  His  tropical  blood  boiling  with  the  fire  within,  he 
caught  up  his  hat,  and  rapidly  descended  to  the  street. 

It  was  a  soft,  cool  September  night,  moonless,  but  refulgent 
with  stars ;  uncalmed  by  its  beauty,  forgetful  of  all  save  his  one 
absorbing  wish,  Justo  never  thought  of  calling  a,  fiacre  ;  for,  chaf 
ing  with  this  fiery  impatience,  it  would  have  been  impossible  for 
him  to  sit  still,  and  striking  into  the  street  that  lay  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Naomi's  home,  he  rushed  on. 

Twenty  minutes'  walk  brought  him  in  front  of  her  little 
garden-gate  against  which  he  leaned  breathless,  a  cloud  floating 
before  his  eyes,  and  the  blood  surging  so  tumultuously  at  his 
heart  that  he  was  scarcely  able  to  sustain  himself.  Growing 
more  composed  after  a  few  moments'  rest,  he  gently  opened  the 
gate,  and  drew  near  the  house.  The  windows  of  Naomi's  draw 
ing-room  were  wide  open.  There  was  a  light  within,  and  the 
lace  curtains,  looped  back  to  admit  the  breeze,  offered  no  obstruc 
tion  whatever  to  the  view.  Precisely  as  Lola  had  done,  Justo's 
eyes  involuntarily  made  the  sweep  of  the  room,  and  with  one 
foot  on  the  first  step  of  the  porch,  he  stood  transfixed  with 
astonishment,  doubtful  of  his  own  powers  of  vision. 

Naomi  reclined  in  a  large  arm-chair,  r9bed  in  the  neglige*  of 
indisposition ;  her  face  was  pale  but  calm,  and  her  eyes  were 
closed  as  though  she  slumbered.  Sitting  beside,  clasping  one 
of  her  hands,  and  supporting  her  head  with  his  arm,  sat  a  young 
man  with  long  fair  hair,  and  a  face  of  poetic  beauty.  It  was 
impossible  to  mistake  the  expression  that  lit  up  his  countenance , 
impossible  to  mistake  the  adoring  gaze  with  which  he  regarded 
the  reposing  face  before  him. 


216  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

For  a  minute,  which  seemed  to  him  an  eternity,  Justo  was 
conscious  only  of  a  wild  commotion  within,  and  an  insane 
impulse  to  precipitate  himself  through  the  window  and  slay 
them  both.  Mechanically  he  felt  for  the  poniard,  which  he 
carried  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat ;  but  the  rectitude  of  his 
heart  and  the  clearness  of  his  judgment  were  as  unerring  as  his 
passions  were  vehement,  and  the  temptation  passed.  What 
claim  had  he  upon  Naomi  ?  What  word  of  love  had  he  ever 
spoken  to  her  ?  What  fidelity  could  she  owe  him  ?  With  an 
almost  superhuman  effort  he  tore  himself  away,  turned  and  fled 
with  reckless,  desperate  steps,  longing  only  to  put  the  immensity 
of  space  between  himself  and  that  accursed  spot. 

Fatality!  fatality!  O!  be  forever  ignorant,  Naomi,  that 
from  your  very  grasp  has  slipped  what  you  ha$  joyfully  offered 
up  your  life  to  win. 

The  next  day,  without  a  word  or  line  of  adieu,  Justo,  in  com 
pany  with  the  Silvas,  left  Paris. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  217 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AFTER  the  reception  of  Naomi's  letter  containing  the  para 
graph  so  inexplicable  to  him,  Angelo  had  anxiously  awaited  the 
arrival  of  another ;  but  weeks  and  weeks  passed  and  none  came ; 
and  prompted  by  a  sudden  impulse  of  unendurable  anxiety, 
he  started  for  Paris.  Coming  as  he  did,  just  in  time  to  place  an 
impassable  barrier  between  Justo  and  Naomi,  did  he  not  seem 
like  a  blind  instrument  of  implacable  fate  ? 

It  was  such  a  joyful  surprise  to  Naomi  to  see  him  walk 
unannounced  into  her  room  ;  so  consoling  to  her  wounded  and 
suffering  spirit  to  have  him  sit  at  her  feet  in  the  old  fashion,  and 
question  her  tenderly,  as  far  as  delicacy  permitted,  as  to  her 
health  and  happiness.  She  owned  frankly  that  she  was  not 
very  well ;  but  she  evaded  all  direct  replies  to  the  rest.  Why 
think  she  was  not  happy  ?  It  had  been  one  of  her  old  attacks 
of  melancholy  that  induced  her  to  write  as  she  did.  "Would  she 
not  be  ungrateful  to  Providence  if  she  were  not  happy — she 
who  had  been  prospered  beyond  her  deserts  ? 

"  And  now  that  you  are  here,  Angelo,  dear,"  she  said,  "  you 
will  take  up  your  abode  with  me,  and  see  something  of  Paris ; 
and  when  you  get  tired — " 

"  When  I  get  tired  I  shall  take  you  to  London  with  me,  Nao 
mi.  You  know  you  promised  to  be  there  with  me  in  the 
fall." 

"We  shall  see,  Angelo,"  she  said,  with  a  sad,  constrained 
smile. 

"  Why,  have  you  so  fallen  in  love  with  Paris  that  you  cannot 
leave  it  ?" 

"It  is  a  very  seductive  city ;  we  shall  see  how  you  pass  its 
ordeal." 


218  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

The  presence  of  her  loved  and  loving  brother  stimulated  and 
roused  Naomi.  She  shook  off  the  apathy  that  for  weeks  had 
benumbed  her  faculties,  and  went  with  Angelo  everywhere  as 
gay  as  the  gayest. 

One  night  at  a  musical  soire*e  she  met  M.  Gustave. 

"  Pray,  tell  me,"  he  said,  in  his  usual  lively  way,  "  did  Ame- 
no  say  anything  about  me  before  he  left  ?  Do  you  know  to 
what  part  of  the  Continent  he  is  gone  ?" 

Naomi  paled  slightly ;  but  she  answered,  with  the  most  •un 
concerned  air  imaginable : 

"  No,  M.  Gustave,  Senor  Ameno  did  not  speak  to  me  of  you ; 
and  I  am  unable  to  give  you  any  information  as  to  his  where 
abouts." 

Returned  home  that  night,  Naomi  and  Angelo  lingered  awhile 
upon  the  porch ;  she  plucking  roses,  and  absently  strewing  the 
ground  with  their  leaves ;  he  leaning  against  the  door-post,  silent 
and  thoughtful. 

"Well,  Angelo,"  she  said  at  last,  "are  you  tired  of  Paris? 
Are  }^our  eyes  turning  homeward  ?" 

"  I  miss  my  statues.  This  gay,  luxurious  life  is  well  enough 
to  look  at  for  a  little  while,  but  it  is  not  my  element.  Still,  I 
do  not  want  to  go  till  you  be  willing  to  accompany  me." 

"  I  will  go  with  you.  My  preparations  can  soon  be  made — 
are  you  pleased  now?"  And  she  laid  her  hand  caressingly 
upon  his  shoulder. 

He  did  not  answer  immediately ;  and  when  he  did,  his  voice 
was  low  and  not  quite  steady. 

"  Very  happy,  indeed,  dear  sister.  Yes,  you  had  better  enter ; 
the  air  grows  cold.  Good  night !" 

A  week  after,  Angelo  was  at  home,  and  Naomi  occupying 
her  old  lodgings  in  London. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  219 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

REST — rest  and  forgetfulness.  No  operatic  engagements  for  the 
present,  bringing  with  every  passionate,  soul-stirring  aria  the 
memory  of  his  looks  and  gestures.  Let  her  strive  to  believe 
that  she  had  never  quitted  Angelo  to  return  to  Paris ;  that  all 
had  been  an  illusion,  which  would  fade  away  like  a  feverish 
dream.  Let  her  forget  that  she  was  a  great  artiste,  with  a  world 
wide  reputation,  and  endeavor  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  a 
simple,  domestic  woman,  ignorant  of  the  world,  living  here 
quietly  with  an  only  and  beloved  brother. 

With  this  resolve  she  passed  day  after  day  in  the  studio, 
sometimes  sewing,  sometimes  reading  aloud;  pertinaciously 
calling  back  her  wayward,  wandering  thoughts,  and  finding  that 
the  next  instant  they  had  again  drifted  away. 

Preoccupied  as  she  was,  it  was  impossible  to  be  thus  constantly 
with  Angelo  and  not  perceive,  ere  long,  that  some  mysterious 
influence  was  working  a  change  in  him.  A  sombre  shadow 
had  darkened  the  old  ideality  of  his  face,  and  his  slight  tinge 
of  natural  melancholy  had  deepened  into  gloom.  With  her 
book  upon  her  knee,  Naomi  would  sometimes  regard  him  for 
minutes  with  wondering,  questioning  eyes,  without  his  seeming 
to  be  in  the  least  aware  of  it ;  and  if  by  any  chance  he  met  her 
gaze,  a  burning  flush  would  spread  suddenly  over  his  face,  and 
he  would  turn  away  and  busy  himself  in  some  other  part  of  the 
room  till  his  emotion  had  subsided. 

With  perceptions  sharpened  by  her  own  recent  experience, 
Naomi  did  not  long  remain  in  doubt.  At  first  a  vague,  almost 
incredible  inkling  of  the  truth  stole  into  her  mind,  but  every 
hour's  observation  confirmed  it ;  and  not  knowing  whether  asto 
nishment  or  pain  were  uppermost  within  her,  she  saw  the  fact  at 


220  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

last  clearly.  Yet  this  knowledge  was  far  from  producing  on  her 
the  effect  it  would  have  done  six  months  before.  Believing  that 
where  she  had  been  her  truest  self,  where  all  her  soul  had 
gushed  spontaneously  forth,  she  had  failed  to  arouse  any  but  the 
most  commonplace  of  sentiments,  her  faith  in  her  own  capabili 
ties  of  inspiring  love  had  received  a  cruel  blow.  At  his  age, 
she  reasoned,  and  living  as  he  did  in  isolation,  it  was  very  natu 
ral  that  his  young  heart  should  seek  a  vent  for  itself;  and  very 
natural,  too,  under  the  circumstances,  that  he  should  magnify  into 
love  his  tender,  grateful  attachment  to  herself.  Studiously  con 
cealing  from  him  that  she  had  divined  the  secret  he  so  carefully 
sought  to  hide,  she  meditated  upon  the  means  of  curing  him  of 
his  illusion. 

It  was  one  fair  October  «ve  that,  sitting  by  his  high  studio 
window,  she  threw  aside  her  book,  and  spoke  to  him,  with  the 
unsurpassed  grace  and  eloquence  so  peculiarly  her  own  when  in 
the  vein  for  conversation,  of  her  travels,  and  the  many  persons 
and  places  she  had  seen,  till,  forgetful  of  his  task,  he  drew 
near  with  his  chisel  still  in  his  hand,  and  sat  down  beside  her ; 
his  elbow  on  the  window-sill,  and  his  chin  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand. 

The  air  had  grown  a  little  chill.  She  wrapped  about  her  the 
shawl  that  had  fallen  from  her  graceful  shoulders,  and,  with 
eyes  pensively  fixed  on  the  subduedly  glowing  horizon,  fell 
suddenly  into  silence.  He  did  not  speak;  but  his  watching 
eyes  observed,  with  eager  interest,  every  shade  of  expression 
that  flitted  over  her  speaking  face.  Presently,  without  looking 
at  him,  she  said : 

"  I  have  been  thinking  a  great  deal  of  you  lately,  Angelo." 

"  Thinking  of  me  I  "  He  only  repeated  her  words ;  but  what 
a  world  of  anxious  questioning  there  was  in  his  tone. 

"  Yes ;  thinking  how  strange  and  how  unwise  it  is  that,  at 
twenty  years  of  age,  you  should  make  such  a  hermit  of  yourself. 
With  your  organization,  the  society  of  intelligent  and  refined 
women  would  be  particularly  congenial ;  then,  by-and-by,  you 


THE   HISTORY  OF,*A  WOMAN.  221 

would,  in  all  probability,  love,  and  find  a  companion.  Why ! 
pray  don't  look  so  startled.  You  know  I  am  your  sister — your 
elder  sister;  therefore,  you  should  think  my  judgment  worth 
something  in  this  matter.  Selfishness  would  prompt  me  to  keep 
my  good  brother  all  to  myself;  but  we  must  not  be  selfish  with 
those  we  love.  Coming  here  the  other  morning,  I  met  a  young 
English  girl  I  knew  last  year  at  Florence.  She  left  her  carriage 
to  come  and  speak  to  me,  and  seemed  so  joyous  at  seeing  me 
again.  She  is  a  pretty,  gentle  creature,  An gelo.  Such  a  fair 
and  fragile  thing,  that  to  paint  her  an  artist  would  need  his 
softest  shades  ;  and  yet  so  bright  that  she  might  be  touched  off 
with  sunbeams.  She  asked  me  in  her  childlike  way  where  I  was 
going,  and  I  spoke  to  her  of  you.  '  Take  me  with  you  there, 
some  day,'  she  said,  laughing ;  '  I  love  statues  and  sculptors.' 
Would  you  like  to  know  her,  Angelo  ?  " 

He  turned  his  face  towards  the  air,  and,  with  a  long-suppressed, 
gasping  respiration,  grasped  his  chisel  convulsively  with  both 
hands,  as  though  he  would  have  broken  the  solid  steel ;  and  yet 
his  tone  as  he  answered,  marked  as  it  was  by  powerful  restraint, 
was  perfectly  gentle. 

"Your  friends,  you  know,  Naomi,  are  always  mine; — but 
don't  think  of  marriage  for  me,  I  beg." 

"  And  why  not  ?  If,  instead  of  your  sister,  there  were  sitting 
here  a  loved  and  loving  wife,  would  you  not  be  happier,  Angelo?  " 

"  And  you,  who  so  appreciate  the  charms  of  such  relations, 
why  do  you  not  marry  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  your  remarks 
are  just  as  applicable  to  yourself  as  to  me." 

"  O,  I !  "  she  said,  with  afro/en  smile  that  drew  her  face  into  a 
sudden  rigidity.  "  I  marry  I  No.  My  life  is  devoted  to  art ; 
can  there  be  room  in  my  heart  for  any  other  feeling?  " 

He  made  no  reply.  All  his  soul  was  in  a  wild  war  of  turbu 
lent  and  uncontrollable  emotion.  His  pent-up  heart,  which  had 
groaned  inwardly  for  weary  years,  struggled  vehemently  for 
utterance.  Everything  in  this  conversation  combined  to  impose 
silence  on  him  more  imperiously  than  ever ;  but,  by  an  inexpli- 


"222  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

cable  contradiction  which  often  occurs  in  our  wayward  and 
mysterious  nature,  what  should  have  led  him  to  one  course 
impelled  him,  irresistibly,  to  exactly  the  opposite.  He  was  pale 
with  the  last  efforts  of  his  will  to  restrain  the  expression  of  the 
overmastering  passion  that  silently  shook  him,  as  he  commenced 
to  speak  in  that  suppressed  voice  which  is  as  full  of  power  and 
meaning  as  the  first  low  muttering  of  the  thunder  in  the  distant 
hills. 

"  You  are  changed,  Naomi.  O,  very  greatly  changed  !  There 
was  a  time  when  you  would  not,  could  not  have  spoken  to  me 
as  you  have  just  done — would  not  and  could  not  have  done  it, 
knowing  what  you  must  inevitably  know." 

She  looked  at  him,  a  little  shaken  out  of  her  usual  marble 
composure. 

" '  Knowing  what  I  must  inevitably  know,'  "  she  repeated. 
"  Why,  what  do  I  know,  Angelo  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  know  ?"  his  voice  rang  with  a  bitter  scorn. 
"  You  know  that  in  all  the  world  there  is  but  one  woman 
whose  image  could  fill  my  heart — and  that  she  is  irrevocably 
denied  me.  You  know  that  for  years  the  thought  of  her  has 
haunted  my  solitude  and  my  dreams.  Look  around  this  room. 
Does  not  her  noble  face  in  all  its  myriad  expressions  glow 
on  you  from  every  marble  ?  Do  not  feign  ignorance — that 
is  unworthy  of  you.  You  know  well  that  it  is  one  who  saved 
me  from  a  life  of  vice  and  misery — she  to  whom  I  owe 
every  elevating  thought,  every  noble  aspiration  ;  to  whom, 
in  one  one  word,  I  owe  all,  and  render  all — my  gratitude,  my 
adoration.  Must  I  say  it  is  you — you,  Naomi,  whom  I  love, 
before  you  will  recognize  the  fact  ?  You  need  not  shrink. 
No  absurd  and  presumptuous  hope  has  prompted  these  words. 
I  know  how  mad  is  the  dream  I  have  cherished,  and  it  is 
enough  to  feel  myself  the  slave  of  a  fruitless  passion.  Do 
not  mock  me,  do  not  insult  me,  by  speaking  to  me  of  mar 
riage  and  of  happiness,  as  though  I  had  a  poor,  weak  heart 
of  dough,  that  could  be  tamely  moulded  to  your  will." 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  223 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words  he  rose,  and  with  a  vehe 
ment  gesture  of  scorn  and  indignation,  strode  rapidlj  up 
and  down  the  room.  Twice  Naomi  had  striven  in  vain  to 
interrupt  him;  but  long  before  he  finished  she  sat  in  silence, 
with  bowed  head,  and  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  Every 
reproachful  word  of  his  fell  on  her  ear  with  all  the  force  of 
justice,  melting  away  the  scoffing,  icy  scepticism  with  which 
she  had  viewed  his  feelings  for  her.  To  the  depths  of  a 
nature  unsurpassed  in  generosity  when  rightly  appealed  to, 
she  was  moved  with  remorseful  sympathy  and  poignant  re-  * 
gret — silent  tears  forced  their  way  through  her  fingers,  and 
fell  one  by  one  upon  her  heaving  bosom. 

For  many  .minutes  he  continued  his  agitated  walk  ;  but 
gradually  his  steps  grew  slower  ;  the  vivid  fire  of  his  eye 
dimmed  ;  and  the  color  came  again  •  to  his  cheek.  The 
storm  had  spent  itself.  The  firm,  noble  character  which,  for 
many  a  year  till  now,  no  whirlwind  of  passion  had  dashed 
from  its  foothold,  resumed  its  sway.  Slowly,  and  with 
downcast  eyes,  abashed  and  contrite,  he  drew  near  Naomi. 

"  I  have  wronged,  grieved,  offended  you,  Naomi — my  be 
nefactress — my  sister  !  Can  you  pardon  me  ?  Can  you  for 
get  the  rash  words  that  I  have  spoken  ?  Words  that  I 
had  never  dreamed  could  issue  from  my  lips  by  any  pos 
sibility.  It  was  the  first — it  shall  be  the  last  time.  Be  con 
siderate  with  me  this  once.  Ah  I  you,  whose  life  is  all  one 
scene  of  triumph,  can  poorly  comprehend  the  yearning  of  a 
heart  full  to  overflowing — the  anguish  of  unrequited  •  love. 
Speak  to  me,  Naomi !  One  little  word  to  say  that  I  am 
pardoned  !" 

She  took  the  hand  he  timidly  extended  to  her  in  both  her 
own,  and  laid  it  against  her  cheek  all  wet  with  tears ;  then  in  a 
faltering  voice,  she  said : 

"  /  have  nothing  to  pardon,  Angelo.  I  can  only  mourn  the 
pain  I  have  caused  you — and  weep  that  I  have  lost  my  cherished 
brother." 


224  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  You  have  not  lost  your  brother,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  I  am 
to  you  whatever  you  would  have  me  be — proud,  happy  to  hold 
any  place  in  your  esteem ;  your  sisterly  love  is  dearer  to  me 
than  the  life-devotion  of  any  other.  Oh !  do  not  make  me 
suffer  with  your  tears !  I  am  your  brother,  Naomi — your  happy, 
grateful  brother  of  other  days — Oh,  weep  no  more !" 

But  Naomi,  with  all  her  proud  self-mastery  and  stoical  power 
of  endurance,  her  soul  stirred  by  an  overpowering  emotion, 
was  subjugated  for  a  moment  by  the  vehemence  of  her  nature, 
habitually  held  in  such  tight  check  that,  once  loosened,  it  swept 
all  before  it.  He  rightly  said  she  knew  it — yet  never  till  now 
had  she  realized  that  to  this  much-prized  nature  she  had 
brought  the  bitterest  of  all  pain.  With  no  wild  passionate  wail 
of  agony,  such  as  had  been  sometimes  hers,  but  with  a  quiet 
yet  unrestrained  sorrow,  the  tears  welled  up  from  her  sore  and 
tired  heart. 

He  said  no  more,  but  standing  by  her,  calm  though  very 
pale,  bent  on  her  his  sad,  dark  eyes,  full  of  love  and  pity  for 
her — pity  for  himself,  too,  perchance. 

She  calmed  at  length ;  dried  her  tears,  and  raised  her  drooping 
head.  In  a  low  voice,  she  said : 

"  I  cannot  talk  now,  Angelo.  What  I  have  to  say  will  be 
better  said  hereafter.  It  is  late,  and  I  must  go  home.  Will 
you  ring,  and  see  if  my  coach  is  below  ?" 

He  did  so,  made  the  inquiry,  and  learned  that  the  carriage 
was  in  waiting.  He  repeated  this  to  Noami,  and  approaching 
a  half-finished  bust  resting  on  a  pedestal,  stood  with  his  eyes 
absently  fixed  on  it,  while  she  arose  and  wound  about  her 
head  the  scarf  she  wore  in  place  of  bonnet — then  hesitatingly 
moved  nearer  him.  Her  old,  frank,  familiar  manner  was  quite 
changed  ;  she  could  not  proffer  him  the  sister's  good-night  kiss 
as  was  her  wont.  She  laid  her  hand  timidly  upon  his  arm : 

"  Good-night,  dear  Angelo.     God  bless  you  !" 

He  turned,  and  it  was  strange  to  see  that  it  was  he  who  was 
calm  and  strong,  sprung  suddenly  to  the  majesty  of  noble  man- 


THE  HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  225 

hood ;  and  she,  with  wavering  color  and  uncertain  step,  melted 
into  very  womanhood. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  mournfulness  in  his  tone,  "I 
must  be  punished  for  my  fault ;  you  coldly  reach  me  your  hand 
• — I  have  indeed  ceased  to  be  your  brother." 

She  drew  his  head  down  on  her  shoulder,  and  left  a  kiss  and  a 
tear  upon  his  brow,  and  he,  with  his  brave  self-control,  held  his 
pulses  in  their  natural  beat,  and  calmly  felt  the  pressure  of  her 
lips. 

He  followed  through  the  darkening  corridors — down  the 
winding  stairs,  to  her  carriage  door — handed  her  in — heard  once 
more  her  low-murmured,  "  God  bless  you,  Angelo !"  (0 ! 
his  name  was  softest  music  when  her  lips  pronounced  it),  then 
turned  him  back  again  to  his  desolate  room.  Statues,  and  busts, 
and  paintings  were  all  shrouded  in  the  gloom  of  gathering  night ; 
and  to  him  heavier  than  anywhere,  the  shadow  fell  on  the  spot 
where  she  had  last  stood.  He  sat  down,  cold,  and  white,  and 
still,  gazing  at  vacancy  with  fixed  eyes — not  thinking — not 
feeling  even — but  stunned  by  the  reality,  never  so  realized 

before,  of  his  great,  hopeless  sorrow. 

15 


226  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

NAOMI    TO    ANGELO. 

THIS  is  my  adieu  to  you,  Angelo ;  for  when  you  receive  it,  I 
shall  have  quitted  London.  Dear,  dear  brother,  do  not  reproach 
me  for  this  step.  It  is  very  hard  and  painful  to  me,  for  never 
before  has  your  brotherly  tenderness  been  so  necessary  to  me ; 
but  it  is  better  for  you.  Absence  will  soon  cure  you  of  your 
illusion.  Yes ;  illusion,  Angelo — for  what  else  can  it  be  ?  How 
would  you  have  me  believe  that  you  love,  passionately  love,  a 
woman  who  is  your  elder  in  years,  and  who,  in  what  constitutes 
the  real  difference  in  age,  knowledge  of  life,  might  be  your  mother  ? 
I  know  that,  when  I  am  far  away,  you  will  get  at  a  truer 
conception  of  your  own  feelings. 

0 !  believe  that  it  is  a  sacrifice  for  me  to  leave  you.  No  tie 
of  tenderness  binds  me  to  any  other  being  on  earth ;  and  o'er  my 
past,  Angelo, 

"  Swirls  a  dark  sea  of  tears." 

Intimate  as  we  have  been,  you  yet  know  nothing  of  my 
history,  nor  may  you  know  whil*  I  live ;  but  if  you  survive  me, 
you  shall  read  the  record  of  your  sister's  days.  Poor,  melan 
choly  shades  of  past  miseries !  Often  enough  they  wander  back 
uncalled  ;  I  will  not  summon  them  now.  Yet,  be  sure  of  this, 
if  you  suffer,  if  your  heart  sinks  down  with  the  unshared  pain 
of  its  loneliness,  that  your  sister — she  whose  fate  you  think 
so  enviable — draws  no  one  breath  of  happiness,  but  bears  about 
a  raging,  never-ceasing  conflict  in  herself.  This  is  all  I  can  tell 
you  ;  and  you  must  never  ask  me  more. 

Courage,  brother!     Struggle  against  the  hallucination  that 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN".  227 

has  interrupted  our  sweet  intercourse.  When  you  can  write  me 
with  your  own  noble  truthfulness,  that  in  heart  and  soul  you 
have  again  become  my  brother,  then  with  what  joy  will  I  rejoin 
you,  and  blend  our  divided  lives  in  one  1  Oh !  I  had  so  hoped 
to  find  peace  beside  you;  but  peace,  no  less  than  happiness, 
eludes  my  grasp. 

I  go  to  Yenice.  Write  me  there  very — very  soon.  If  I  was 
cruel  to  you  in  our  last  interview,  pardon  and  forget  it,  Angelo, 
in  the  name  of  our  old  happy  daj^s.  Eemember  that  I  shall 
expect  a  letter  immediately,  at  Venice. 

God  keep  you !  God  give  you  happiness !  It  is  asked  of 
Heaven  as  sincerely,  and  far  more  hopefully  than  for  herself,  by 
the  heart  of  your  fond  sister, 

NAOMI. 

LONDON,  Nov.  4,  18 — . 


228  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

\ 
"!T  is  going  to  be  a  magnificent  sunset.       Was   there   ever 

anything  more  beautiful  than  those  long,  quivering  reflections  of 
palaces  and  churches  in  the  water  ?  " 

"  This  sky  is  even  more  lovely  than  ours ;  is  it  not,  Justo  ?  " 

"  No ;  more  varied,  but  not  so  pure ;  not  so  immeasurably  far 
off  as  to  steal  us  away  from  earth,  as  does  our  Cuban  heaven." 

"  See  I  there  is  our  gondola  now.  Are  you  ready,  Justo  ? 
Are  you,  Mamma?  " 

"It  is  you,  Lola,  who,  as  usual,  are  not  ready.  Where  is 
your  mantilla  ?  Allow  me  I  Is  it  well  so  ?  " 

She  answered  with  an  eloquent  look  of  her  great  dark  eyes. 
A  vivid  color  tinged  her  olive  cheek  at  his  touch  ;  and,  in  the 
shadow  of  her  mantle,  her  little  fingers  caressingly  sought  and 
reluctantly  quitted  his  clasp.  Then,  preceded  by  Mrs.  Silva, 
they  descended  and  took  their  places  in  the  gondola. 

A  gondola  resembles  much  a  carriage-top  placed  in  the  centre  of 
a  canoe,  the  prow  of  which  rises  in  a  graceful  curve.  In  the  stern, 
the  gondolier,  standing  erect,  propels  it  with  an  oar.  Listlessly 
reclining  in  his  seat,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  the  gentle  wind 
playing  with  his  beautiful  black  hair,  Justo  watched  the  thousand 
boats  shooting  out  over  the  canal  in  every  direction.  They  had 
been  floating  along  thus  for  some  fifteen  minutes,  when  Lola, 
who  was,  as  usual,  more  observant  of  Justo  than  of  anything  else, 
saw  his  cheek  suddenly  pale  and  his  eyes  light ;  and  her  glance, 
eagerly  following  his,  beheld  within  a  gondola  very  nearly 
abreast  at  that  moment,  a  female  form  sway  backward  and 
forward  upon  her  seat,  and  then,  losing  her  balance,  fall  forward 
to  the  bottom  of  the  gondola. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  229 

Justo  started  to  his  feet. 

"  A  lady  has  fainted  there,"  gasped  he,  hurriedly ;  "  and  she  is 
all  alone ;  go  to  the  Palazzo  Ducale — I  will  be  with  you  in  a 
moment."  And  before  the  astonished  Lola  had  time  to  unclose 
her  pale  lips,  he  threw  himself  with  a  bound  into  the  gondola, 
which  was  already  shooting  past,  and,  drawing  the  rose-colored 
curtain  over  the  aperture  that  in  these  boats  serves  as  door  and 
window,  was  entirely  hidden  from  view. 

Was  it  not  some  perverse  trick  of  his  imagination  ?  Could  it 
be  that  there — positively  there  at  his  feet — was  lying  the  insen 
sible  form  of  Castadini ;  rare,  precious,  worshipped  Castadini  ? 

He  lifted  her  gently  to  a  seat,  sustaining  her  with  his  arm, 
and,  leaning  out  the  aperture  opposite  the  one  he  had  curtained, 
cried  out  in  Italian  to  the  gondoliero : 

"  The  lady  has  fainted  here ;  row  quickly  into  some  more 
retired  part  of  the  canal." 

He  was  obeyed.  The  gondoliero  bent  vigorously  to  his  oars, 
and  in  a  minute  there  was  a  wide  expanse  of  water  before  them, 
with  scarcely  a  gondola  visible.  Then  Justo  undrew  the  cur 
tain,  rested  Naomi's  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  dipping  his 
handkerchief  in  the  water,  tenderly  bathed  her  brow  and  tem 
ples. 

"What  thought  had  he  of  Lola  ?  "What  memory  of  his  fan 
cied  cause  of  jealousy  ?  For  the  first — first  time,  his  trembling 
arm  encircled — timidly  even  now — that  loved  form.  He  gazed 
down  unabashed  into  that  face,  marbly  white  and  still,  but  full 
of  entrancing  beauty  to  him ;  the  face  that,  ever  floating  before 
him,  had  smiled  between  him  and  his  affianced,  and  showed  him 
how  poor  had  been  his  imagined  love  for  her. 

Presently  he  saw  a  faint  flush  steal  into  Naomi's  cheeks ;  her 
eyelids  quivered,  and  her  lips,  almost  imperceptibly  parting, 
emitted  a  low,  gasping  sigh.  Then  suddenly  there  spread  over 
her  face,  so  impassive  an  instant  before,  a  radiant  glow,  an' 
expression  so  nearly  approaching  beatitude,  that  Justo,  absorbed 
and  intoxicated,  could  without  much  effort  have  persuaded 


230  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"himself  that  she  was  not  swooning,  but  peacefully  sleeping  in 
his  loving  arms. 

Well  might  Naomi's  face  wear  the  look  it  did,  when,  coming 
gradually  to  herself,  forgetful  for  the  moment  of  everything  that 
had  passed,  she  found  all  her  being  pervaded  by  a  sense  of 
bliss  so  new  and  ineffable,  that  she  feared  to  move,  to  breathe, 
half  believing  that  some  enchanting  dream  held  her  senses  in 
thrall,  and  that  at  the  slightest  gesture  the  intangible  thing 
would  melt  into  air.  For  several  minutes  she  had  not  sufficient 
energy  to  seek  to  know  where  she  was ;  but  at  last,  very  slightly 
opening  her  eyes,  she  saw,  with  a  thrill  of  infinite  joy,  that 
adored  face  bending  over  her  with  such  loving  compassion,  and 
felt  his  hand,  with  all  the  gentleness  of  a  woman,  pass  and 
repass  upon  her  brow.  Her  head  reclined  upon  his  shoulder, 
his  arm  sustained  her,  and  the  wind  wafted  his  hair  upon  her 
cheek.  The  little  gondola  rocked  softly  upon  the  undulating 
waves,  breaking  into  golden  ripples  all  around  them  in  the  sun's 
last  glories.  0!  thou  sweet  dream  of  heaven,  stay  awhile  ! 

Alas  !  full  consciousness  would  come,  the  memory  of  all  would 
rush  back.  It  was  but  common  politeness,  common  kindness 
of  heart,  that  had  brought  him  there.  With  a  long,  deep, 
bitter  sigh,  she  returned  to  reality,  moved,  unclosed  her  eyes, 
and  sat  up. 

He  changed  as  instantaneously  as  she  did.  The  eloquent  glow 
of  emotion  faded,  and  left  his  face  cold  and  grave.  Withdraw 
ing  his  arm,  and  moving  a  little  further  off,  he  said,  in  a  tone 
which  he  endeavored  to  render  simply  polite,  but  in  which, 
spite  of  himself,  trembled  the  earnest  undertone  of  deep  feeling: 

"  I  trust  that  you  are  better,  Seiiora?  " 

"  Much  better — quite  well.  I  am  subject  to  these  attacks.  I 
owe  you  many  thanks."  She  said  these  few  words  falteringly, 
and  with  a  bewildered  manner. 

His  brow  darkened  more  and  more.  Fool !  to  have  permitted 
himself  to  believe  for  an  instant  that  the  unexpected  sight  of 
him  could  have  affected  her.  His  lip  curled  with  scorn  of  him- 


THE  HISTOKY  OF  A  WOMAN.  231 

self,  as  the  recollection  of  how  he  had  last  beheld  her  came 
rushing  over  him,  filling  him  again  with  the  gnawing  agony  of 
jealousy. 

"Weak,  and  pale,  and  tremulous  from  head  to  foot,  she  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  looked  at  him  with  her  earnest, 
longing  eyes.  Chance,  or  fate,  had  mysteriously  thrown  them 
together  again.  They  were  alone  ;  could  he — and  would  he  speak 
now  ?  It  was  so  little  that  she  craved — only  one  word  to  assure 
her  that,  though  their  destinies  might  lie  far  asunder,  though 
the  distance  of  the  world  might  divide  them,  yet  his  love  was 
hers.  Could  he  not  divine  the  weight  of  misery  that  oppressed 
her  ?  Would  he  not  let  one  ray  of  divine  light  shine  in  upon 
the  darkness  of  her  soul. 

The  gondola  floated  quietly  along  over  the  bright-tinted 
waters,  the  clouds  passed  from  rosy  to  a  gorgeous  crimson,  still 
Justo  sat  in  silence.  How  should  he  indifferently  speak  of 
common-place  matters,  with  such  a  tumult  of  love,  and  jealousy, 
and  rage  within  him  ?  He  dared  not  look  at  Naomi.  !f  his 
eyes  should  rest  again  upon  her,  he  should  forget  duty  and 
pride  ;  should  lose  sight  of  the  fact  of  her  love  for  another  ; 
should  audaciously,  madly  take  her  in  his  arms  and  claim  her 
as  his  own.  Already  the  impulse  was  upon  him;  he  must 
escape  from  this  suffocating  atmosphere.  In  a  hoarse,  trembling 
voice,  he  said,  abruptly  : 

"  Senora,  I  left  my  party  very  suddenly,  and,  as  you  are  well 
now,  I  must  rejoin  them.  May  I  bid  the  gondoliero  near  the 
bank,  and  leave  me  here  ?  " 

She  heard  him  with  a  pang  that  cleft  her  heart  with  a  sharp, 
physical  pain ;  and,  fearing  to  trust  her  voice,  bowed  her  head 
assentingly,  watching  him  as  he  gave  the  order,  with  a  wild 
thought  in  her  brain.  What  if  she  drew  near,  and  clasped  his 
hand,  and  told  him  —  lost,  reckless,  palpitating  with  passion  — 
that  in  leaving  her  in  this  strange,  cold  manner,  he  was  tear 
ing  away  her  very  existence !  But  pride,  the  old,  haughty 
pride,  the  ruling  power  of  her  nature,  which  not  even  her  illi- 


232  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

mitable  love  could  utterly  beat  down  beneath  its  feet,  thralled 
the  passionate  impulse.  She  clenched  the  cold,  trembling  hands, 
hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  till  the  nails  entered  the  flesh ; 
and,  with  a  contracted  brow  and  white,  compressed  lips,  felt  the 
gondola  stop,  saw  the  little  plank  adjusted  for  landing,  and  Justo, 
with  one  foot  upon  it,  hold  out  his  hand  to  her.  Passively  she 
gave  him  hers.  He  scarcely  touched  it,  and,  letting  it  fall,  mur 
mured,  hurriedly : 

"  Adios,  Senora."  Then,  as  if  the  thought  from  its  very 
intensity  had  escaped  him,  he  added,  in  a  tone  so  low  that  only 
her  strained  ear  could  have  caught  the  words : 

"  Para  siempre,  adiosf"  and  springing  lightly  to  the  shore,  he 
darted  round  the  angle  of  an  edifice  and  disappeared. 

She  sat  gazing  around  her.  Oh!  what  heavy  shadows  had 
crept  over  sky  and  water  1  Why,  her  desolation  was  in  the  very 
air. 

The  gondoliero  leaned  lazily  upon  his  oar.  looking  at  the  glit 
tering  waves  and  humming  a  snatch  of  a  song,  awaited  or 
ders. 

A  few  rods  ahead,  the  pure  marble  suffused  with  a  glow  of 
rosy  light,  rose  the  towers  of  the  cathedral.  Bruised  in  heart — 
weary  in  spirit,  she  would  go  there — there,  where  she  might 
kneel  in  solitude  and  darkness — and  where,  perchance,  the  pre 
sence  of  the  Invisible  might  lend  her  consolation. 

"  To  the  cathedral." 

"  Si,  Signora." 

When  the  gondola  again  stopped,  and  Naomi  rose  to  step 
ashore,  she  saw  at  her  feet  Justo's  handkerchief.  She  wrung  the 
slight  dampness  from  it  and  placed  it  in  her  bosom ;  then,  wrap 
ping  her  mantilla  closely  about  her,  entered  the  church. 

The  last  rays  of  day  stole  faintly  through  the  stained  glass 
windows,  diffusing  a  dim,  religious  light,  save  above  the  massive 
winding  staircases,  where  one  long  ray  of  sunshine  streamed  in 
aslant,  rendering  more  perceptible  the  surrounding  obscurity. 
A  few  dark  forms,  lost  in  vastness  and  silence,  were  kneeling  at 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A   WOMAN. 


233 


long  distances  apart.  Naomi  advanced  up  the  middle  aisle. 
Solemn  and  imposing  rose  the  altar,  with  its  holy  pictures,  its 
mystically  veiled  statues,  and  pure  white  flowers,  and  she  sank 
almost  involuntarily  to  her  knees;  but  no  ordinary  attitude 
of  prayer  could  suffice  now  for  that  surcharged  heart,  and  with 
a  low,  bitter  groan  she  fell  prostrate,  her  burning  forehead  press 
ing  the  cold  marble  pavement.  She  did  not  pray  ;  all  elements 
of  prayer  were  for  the  time  laid  to  sleep  within  her.  In  a  mad, 
desperate  wrestle  with  what  she  felt — knew — to  be  the  inevitable, 
her  soul  went  up  in  this  wild,  importunate  cry :  "  Take  from 
me  fame,  and  wealth,  and  beauty ;  plunge  me  into  more  than 
my  original  obscurity ;  deprive  me  of  every  consolation ;  give 
me  to  tread  the  hardest  path  that  ever  woman  trod ;  but  grant 
me  the  memory — the  rapturous  memory — of  one  little  word  of 
love  from  him  I  Let  my  heart  throb  deliciously  but  once,  and 
I  will  walk  along  my  way,  however  barren,  firmly  to  the  end — 
unshrinkingly  will  meet  loneliness,  and  suffering,  and  death !" 
She  had  no  room  for  any  other  thought — all  her  being  was  ab 
sorbed  in  this.  Again  and  again  she  turned  from  the  conviction 
that  her  supplication  was  vain — unheard ;  again  and  again  op 
posed  with  her  rebellious  will  what  indeed  seemed  the  iron 
decree  of  fate. 

From  its  very  fierceness  her  emotion  spent  itself,  and  she  lay 
at  last  calm,  with  the  calmness  of  exhaustion.  Night  had 
descended  when  she  rose  and  with  slow  steps  quitted  the  church, 
and  took  her  seat  in  the  gondola.  Pure  and  soft  above  stretched 
the  star-gemmed  heaven;  the  young  moon  was  up,  reflecting 
its  beams  upon  the  tranquil  waters.  Slow  on  her  bosom  sank 
Naomi's  weary  head,  and  her  black,  shrouding  mantle  hid  from 
her  the  light  and  loveliness  that  but  mocked  her  despair. 


234  NAOMI  TORRENTS: 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  Is  not  La  Castadini  here  to-night  ?" 

The  speaker  was  a  young  Venetian  nobleman,  and  he 
addressed  a  bevy  of  gay  companions  at  a  splendid  fete  in  Ve- 
nice. 

"  Yes,"  answered  one ;  "  I  have  just  seen  her.  She  is  looking 
as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  it  seems  that  she  has  lately  grown  very 
fond  of  amusing , herself.  I  meet  her  everywhere." 

"  I  saw  her  at  Paris  last  spring,"  said  another.  "  Has  she 
been  long  here  ?" 

"  Some  three  months.  She  concluded  one  engagement,  and 
became  so  popular  that  she  was  re-engaged.  By-the-by,  some 
body  told  me  that  there  was  a  little  talk  about  her  and  a  hand 
some  Cuban  in  Paris  ?" 

"  Talk  !  No,  I  think  not.  There  was  a  Cuban  who  never 
missed  a  night  when  she  sang,  threw  her  flowers,  and  visited 
her,  I  believe ;  but  I  imagine  there  was  nothing  beyond  admi 
ration.  He  is  engaged  to  a  very  beautiful  girl,  to  whom,  I  am 
sure,  he  is  much  attached." 

"  0,  you  mean  Ameno.  He  was  here  in  Venice  not  long 
ago,  but  stayed  only  a  few  days." 

"Probably  the  air  of  Venice  just  at  present  did  not  agree 
with  his  betrothed's  health,"  remarked  the  second  speaker. 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  followed  by  a  quick  hush,  for 
from  a  group  behind  the  gossipers,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  fine- 
looking  gentleman,  emerged  La  Castadini  herself.  Beautiful 
and  brilliant,  dressed  with  all  her  usual  elegance,  her  face  lit  up 
with  the  animation  that  made  it  perfectly  irresistible,  she  ac 
knowledged  with  a  smile  and  a  graceful  bend  of  her  head  the 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  235 

salutation  of  the  young  gallants,  and  passed  on,  followed  by  a 
low  murmur  of  admiration. 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  the  young  Venetian  who  had  first 
spoken,  "she  is  a  glorious  creature ;  and  in  spite  of  the  little 
scandals  that  get  circulated  about  every  one,  there  seems  to  be 
a  general  impression  that  she  is  virtuous." 

"  A  very  correct  impression,  I  imagine,"  replied  the  one  who 
had  spoken  of  having  met  her  in  Paris.  "  There  is  something 
in  her  face  that  indicates  an  elevated  character." 

"  So  you  are  a  physiognomist,  are  you  ?  Give  me  your  arm, 
and  we  will  saunter  up  and  down,  and  you  shall  give  me  your 
opinion  of  every  one  we  meet." 

With  that  wonderful  elasticity  of  temperament  which  had 
enabled  her  to  rise  superior  to  misfortunes  and  conquer  all 
obstacles,  Naomi  had  roused  to  battle  with  her  unhappy  love. 
She  possessed  wealth  and  a  stainless  name,  and  the  portals  -of 
society  were  open  to  her.  She  would  develop  to  its  highest 
extent  her  love  of  luxury,  and  receive  the  admiration  that 
everywhere  awaited  her.  She  would  rush  from  one  excitement 
to  another,  till  exhausted  nature  demanded  repose,  and  leave 
herself  no  pause  for  thought,  no  time  to  suffer.  To  see  her  in 
those  gay  scenes,  to  mark  her  radiant  face,  and  listen  to  her 
light  laughter,  no  one  could  realize  that  care  had  ever  shadowed 
her  brow,  or  a  single  bitter  tear  ever  flowed  from  her  eyes. 
There  was  no  one  observant  enough  to  notice  that  at  the  slight 
est  pause  in  the  gay  conversation,  the  smile  died  on  her  lips, 
her  eyes  wandered  with  a  far  off  look,  and  her  bosom  heaved 
with  a  deep,  noiseless  sigh.  And  thus,  at  the  end  of  six  months, 
Naomi  had  won  for  herself  in  Venetian  society  the  reputation 
of  a  woman  overweeningly  fond  of  admiration,  and  decidedly 
given  to  coquetry. 


236  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ANGELO   TO  NAOMI. 

I  HAVE  not  written  you  for  many  weeks,  dearest  sister,  but 
you  will  not  wonder  at  my  silence,  nor  blame  me  for  it,  when  I 
explain  to  you  the  reason.  I  have  been  absorbed,  rapt  into  the 
ethereal  regions  where  I  shall  one  day  find  nly  home,  and  I  have 
returned  to  earth  purified,  refreshed,  and  strengthened. 

Naomi,  I  have  to  announce  to  you  something  that  will 
assuredly  astonish  you,  something  that  I  fear  will  pain  you.  It 
is  that  I  abandon  art — beautiful,  noble  art — whose  ardent  votary 
I  have  always  been.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  There  is  but 
one  thing  that  can  justify  such  a  desertion — not  love,  for  that  is 
compatible  with  it — not  love,  but  religion.  Have  patience,  and 
let  me  tell  you  how  it  happened. 

For  days,  weeks,  months  perhaps — it  seemed  an  eternity  to 
me,  but  I  cannot  tell  how  long  it  was  in  reality — I  had  felt 
wearied  of  everything.  There  was  no  inspiring  joy  in  the  fresh 
morning  light — no  peace  in  the  lovely  twilight,  that,  were  it 
only  from  the  fact  that  you  so  love  it,  should  have  been  a  con 
solation.  I  had  no  heart  to  work ;  the  greatest  earthly  fame 
seemed  to  me  a  miserable  vanity,  not  worth  the  trouble  of  attain 
ing.  I  said  with  Lamartine:  "  Allons,  je  ne  savais  pas  que 
c'etait  une  chose  si  difficile  que  de  vivre  !"  It  was  while  in  this 
mood  that  I  ascended  one  night  to  the  roof  of  my  studio  build 
ing,  from  which,  as  you  know,  there  is  a  commanding  view  of 
the  city — but  I  cared  not  for  that.  I  was  sick  of  earth,  and 
wished  to  contemplate  the  glorious  firmament.  I  threw  myself 
down  along  the  low  wall,  rested  my  arm  upon  it,  and,  gazing 
upwards,  fell  into  thought.  0 !  I  thought  of  many — many 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A   WOMAN.  237 

things :  of  my  father  ;  of  my  poor — poor  mother ;  of  the  forlorn 
wanderings  of  my  infancy ;  and,  more  than  all,  alas !  of  its 
precocious  sins — sins  which,  but  for  your  blessed,  saving  influ 
ence,  Naomi,  would  have  grown  into  monstrous  vices.  I  cannot 
explain  to  myself  how  it  was,  but  I  felt  so  humiliated,  so  over 
whelmed  by  a  sense  of  my  own  worthlessness,  that  my  eyes 
closed,  my  head  sank  down  upon  the  hard  bricks,  and  if  at  that 
moment  I  was  capable  of  forming  a  wish  of  any  kind,  it  was 
that  I  might  be  annihilated.  As  I  sat  thus,  a  ray  of  pure, 
celestial  light  seemed  to  stream  upon  my  mental  vision,  and  I 
could  read  plainly  in  the  bottom  of  my  soul  the  cause  of  all  my 
misery. 

"Self,"  I  said  to  myself,  "is  the  end  and  aim  of  all  my 
efforts,  all  my  thoughts,  and  it  is  this  that  renders  my  ex 
istence  a  fatigue,  a  load,  from  beneath  whose  galling  weight 
I  never  pass.  I  have  no  one  to  labor  for,  no  one  looks  to 
me  for  happiness ;  but  is  there  no  way  in  which  I  may  be 
of  use  to  others,  and  escape  from  this  ever-present  and  most 
unsatisfactory  self?"  "  Look  abroad,"  something  seemed  to  say 
to  me,  "  through  all  the  world ;  see  how  lacking  men  are 
in  justice  and  charity  towards  one  another  :  think,  too,  that 
in  every  human  soul  resides  some  little  germ  of  good  ;  go 
forth  and  strive  to  develope  it,  imitating  the  example  of  the 
holy  Crucified  One." 

I  got  upon  my  knees  in  the  darkness  ;  tears — but  tears 
of  joy,  Naomi,  raining  from  my  eyes — and  blessed  Heaven 
for  the  inspiration.  Buoyant  of  heart,  and  light  of  step,  I 
rose;  my  burden  Irad  fallen  from  me.  "Yes,"  I  said,  "I 
will  take  up  my  cross  and  follow  Christ."  He  has  said  : 
"  Come  unto  me  all  ye  who  labor ,  and  are  heavily  laden, 
and  I  will  give  ye  rest."  Eest  1  rest  1  That  is  all  the  hap 
piness  that  a  heart  like  mine  can  ask. 

You  know  that  my  religious  principles  are  like  your 
own,  and  that  I  have  no  faith  in  creeds.  The  errors  and 
absurdities  of  humanity  have  mir^gled  with  all  religions.  It 


238  NAOMI   TOEEENTE  : 

is  only  the  spirit  of  Christ's  teachings  that  breathes  divinity. 
Nevertheless,  in  order  to  be  a  regularly  constituted  mis 
sionary,  and  also  because  ray  want  of  fortune  would  not 
permit  me  to  devote  myself  to  the  missionary  life  indepen 
dently,  it  was  necessary  to  attach  myself  to  some  sect  ;  and 
I  have  chosen  the  Unitarian  as  being  the  most  liberal.  I 
have  been  accepted,  and  have  received  a  mission  in  India  for 
an  indefinite  length  of  time. 

I  have  disposed  of  all  relics  of  my  artist  life,  except 
your  gifts  and  my  Sappho — my  ideal,  whom  I  love  as  well 
as  Pygmalion  loved  his  statue-bride.  This  I  leave  with  a 
friend  ;  and  with  my  staff  in  hand,  set  my  foot  upon  the 
pilgrim's  path. 

Enough  of  myself.  One  word  of  her  who  now  alone, 
of  all  the  world,  divides  the  thought  of  my  great  Master's 
work.  No,  not  divides — I  wrongly  said — for  in  every  thought 
of  her  I  find  a  purifying,  elevating  power,  and  new  strength 
to  toil,  and  struggle,  and  bear,  as  I  am  sure  that  she  has 
toiled,  and  struggled,  and  borne. 

How  is  it  with  you,  Naomi  ?  You  speak  to  me  of  be 
ing  ever  busied  ;  of  having  engagements  for  months  in  ad 
vance,  and  of  whirling  in  a  perfect  vortex  of  gaiety,  but  never 
do  my  eyes  rest  on  the  words  they  so  anxiously  seek :  "  An- 
gelo,  I  am  happy."  Dear,  noble  sister,  ^so  worthy  of  Hea 
ven's  choicest  blessings,  so  fitted  to  appreciate  them,  how 
shall  I  reconcile  it  with  the  justice  of  Providence  that  you 
should  suffer  ?  I  have  never  before  referred,  even  indirectly, 
to  a  passage  in  your  letter  of  adieu  ;  nor  do  I  do  so  now  with 
any  inquisitorial  wish  to  fathom  what  you  would  have 
hidden  ;  my  only  motive  is  that  you  may  know  that  every 
pain  of  yours  is  a  double  pain  to  me  ;  and  that  there  is  one 
heart  in  the  universe  that  beats  for  you  with  true  and  ear 
nest  sympathy. 

I  am  unable  to  tell  you  now  at  what  point  I  shall 
be  fixed.  I  will  write  you  always  to  the  care  of  your 


THE   HISTORY  OF   A  WOMAN.  239 

London    banker ;    keep  him   apprised  of  your   whereabouts, 
and   he   will   forward  my  letters   to   you. 

Adieu  !  I  might  almost  say,  that  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  am  happy  ;  if  it  is  to  be  happy  to  be  calm  and 
strong,  and  feel  within  the  soul  a  faith  as  pure,  steady,  and 
serene  as  the  glorious  star  that  guided  the  wise  men  to  Beth 
lehem.  £et  your  eyes  turn  sometimes  in  the  direction  whither 
I  go.  Let  me  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  you, 
who  are  family  and  home  and  all  on  earth  to  me,  send  a  sigh, 
a  wish,  a  regret  towards  your  absent  brother 

ANGELO. 

LONDON,  April  10,  18 — . 


240  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTEE  XXL 

FRAGMENTS     OF    A     DIARY    KEPT     BY    NAOMI     DURING    THE 
ENSUING    YEAR. 

"  VENICE,  April  20th. — How  I  love  your  serenity,  pure,  spi 
ritual  stars !  You  rest  my  dazzled,  wearied  eyes :  you  awe  into 
calmness  my  burning,  struggling  soul. 

"  To-night,  in  crossing  the  brilliant  saloon,  I  caught  a  full 
view  of  my  figure  in  a  long  mirror.  Wreathed  and  gemmed, 
it  smiled  upon  me.  False  lip  that  has  so  well  learned  to  coun 
terfeit  nature,  that  none  can  detect  the  cheat !  Yet,  it  is  a  bitter 
contrast  to  see  that  smile,  and  feel  the  heart  within.  Yain — vain 
effort  to  drown  remembrance  1 

"  To-morrow  I  leave  Venice.  I  have  lingered  here  so  long 
(poor,  weak,  prideless  heart)  only  because  he  has  breathed  its 
air. 

"  FLORENCE,  July  5th. — This  visit  has  left  me  full  of  strange 
and  contradictory  emotions.  What  shall  I  think  of  this  man  ? 
Did  he  speak  to  me  with  sincerity  ?  It  must  be  so.  A  man  of 
his  age,  of  his  gravity  of  character,  could  not  be  capable  of  in- 
Venting  such  a  fable.  No  !  no !  surely  he  told  me  the  truth  ; 
and  yet,  fatal  result  of  experience,  a  doubt  will  come !  Then, 
too,  there  is  a  kind  of  inconsistency  in  what  he  says.  Well ! 
well  1  time  will  prove. 

"  '  I  wonder,'  he  said,  '  if  every  human  heart  suffers  to  the 
extent  of  its  capabilities  ?'  '  To  the  extent,'  I  said,  '  and  some 
times  beyond,  for  there  are  those  who  succumb  beneath  the  bur 
den  too  heavy  to  be  borne.'  What  sympathy  I  felt  for  him 
when  he  told  me  he  had  no  one  in  the  world  to  love.  I  am 
always  inspired  with  an  earnest  wish  to  console  those  who  are 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  241 

tormented  with  this  great  soul-void.  The  happy  do  not  attract 
me,  they  do  not  need  me,  and  though  I  seek  no  consolation  for 
my  own  sorrows,  I  love  to  strive  to  console  those  who  have  suf 
ficient  sensibility  to  suffer  as  I  do  ;  and  it  is  strange,  that  when 
I  see  the  weak  and  unhappy,  I  feel  stronger,  better  able  to 
struggle  and  wait. 

"  July  12th. — The  conversation  of  last  night  and  that  of 
to-day  has  dissipated  all  my  doubts.  Ah  I  how  little  do  men 
see  and  know,  even  the  most  penetrating  of  them,  to  call  this 
'"love.  What  a  sacrilege !  Love !  the  noblest,  purest,  divinest 
sentiment  that  animates  the  human  heart,  that  elevates  the 
soul,  that  purifies  and  strengthens  the  nature  even  when  it  is 
unhappy  !  To  call  this  terrestrial  passion  love,  this  caprice  that 
would  pass  in  an  hour,  and  to  think  to  deceive  me  with,  words  ; 
me  who  know,  alas  !  too  well,  what  love  is,  and  in  what  way  it 
manifests  itself. 

"  July  14th.— I  am  a  mystery  and  a  marvel  to  myself.  Why 
is  it  that  this  blind,  obdurate,  insensate  hope  still  lives  within 
me  ?  I  know  that  I  have  no  right  to  hope,  that  I  have  nothing 
whereon  to  found  a  hope  ;  and  yet  all  the  efforts  of  my  reason 
are  not  sufficient  to  enable  me  to  will  to  abandon  it. 

"  0 !  if  it  were  possible  for  me  to  see  the  future ;  to  know 
whether  he  loves  me ;  to  penetrate  for  one  instant  his  most 
secret  thoughts !  My  God,  enlighten  me  I  bless  my  love  or 
destroy  it !  And  yet,  what  an  inexplicable  contradiction  I  I 
cannot  say  this  from  my  heart.  It  would  be  sacrilegious  to  pray 
for  the  annihilation  of  a  sentiment  so  rooted  in  my  very  being 
— a  passion  so  ardent  and  profound  that  it  has  swallowed  up 
everything  else  in  my  nature. 

"  A  vain  love — what  can  there  be  in  life  more  hopelessly  sad  ? 
Sad,  but  withal  sublime ;  for  unrequited  passion,  which,  if 
happy,  would  necessarily  partake  in  some  degree  of  the  terres 
trial,  is  purified  and  spiritualized  till  it  becomes  the  holiest 
heart-incense  offered  up  before  the  shrine  of  its  adoration. 

"  To  thee,  thou  silent  page,  on  which,  while  I  live,  no  eye 

16 


242  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

save  mine  will  ever  look,  I  can  confide  what  I  could  not — would 
not  breathe  to  any  human  being  for  all  the  universe.  Here  I 
can  freely,  fearlessly  pour  out  my  heart  and  soul,  and  even  this 
is  a  balsam  to  the  wound  od  heart.  I  am  weary,  so  weary  of  the 
eternal  performance  of  life,  where  everything  seems  and  so  little 
really  is. 

"  July  20th. — All  day  I  have  been  pondering  on  the  words 
of  Jesus,  which  Angelo  quotes  in  his  last  letter :  '  Come  unto 
me  all  ye  who  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  ye 
rest.' 

"  Sweet,  sublime  Jesus,  sealing  and  sanctifying  his  divine 
doctrine  by  the  offering  of  his  holy  life  upon  the  cross  1 — would 
that  I  could  learn  from  thee,  thou  noble,  model  of  all  virtue,  to 
suffer  with  patience,  to  carry  my  cross  in  silence,  resting,  like 
thee,  my  tired  heart  upon  the  Infinite ! 

"  If  it  had  but  pleased  heaven  to  grant  me  his  love,  and  cast 
my  lot  with  his,  what  happiness  it  would  have  been  to  live  un 
known  to  fame,  forgetting  and  forgotten !  I  could  have  had  no 
personal  ambition,  no  wish  or  will  apart  from  him ;  and  what 
little  poor  genius  I  possess,  like  everything  else  in  my  being, 
would  have  been  absorbed  in  my  love.  His,  his  only  f  What 
inconceivable  bliss  there  is  in  that  thought !  Let  me  forget  it ! 
let  me  forget  it ! 

"  August  3d. — At  sea.  Solemn,  mystical  ocean  !  hast  thou 
too  an  unquiet  soul  that  will  not  let  thee  rest?  Hast  thou,  too, 
some  hidden  sorrow  that  spite  of  thee  betrays  itself  in  thy  eter 
nal  turbulence  and  unceasing  wail  ?  Thou  art  likened  to  eter 
nity,  but  in  thy  ebb  and  flow,  in  thy  vast,  wild  surging,  thou 
art  more  like  the  human  soul.  Kindred  thou  art  to  me  :  even 
as  thou,  do  I  struggle  with  the  immutable — and  as  vainly, 
alas !  as  vainly. 

"NAPLES,  November  15th. — Angelo,  poor  Angelo!  Ungrate • 
ful,  unkind  that  I  am,  I  seldom  think  of  him,  though  he  so 
desired  that  my  eyes  should  sometimes  wander  towards  his  dis 
tant  home.  Alas !  my  eyes  roam  round  the  horizon,  wondering 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  243 

where  he  is.  Ah,  if  I  could  but  know  I  It  seems  even  to  me  a 
puerility,  but  it  is  a  positive  pain  to  me  to  think  that  perhaps  at 
this  moment  I  have  turned  my  face  from  the  point  that  holds 
him. 

.  "  Oh  I  of  late  I  am  weary,  very  weary  of  life,  seeing  before 
me  nothing  but  this  unvarying,  barren  suffering.  However 
long  I  may  live,  there  can  never  be  for  me  a  single  instant  of 
happiness.  For  this— I  feel  it  know  it,  with  the  profound  con 
viction  that  cannot  deceive — this  is  the  love  of  my  life.  Strange ! 
strange !  I  cannot  comprehend  it,  and  yet  it  is  a  fact,  that  there 
is  no  longer  in  me  any  capacity  for  loving.  For  all  men  except 
him  my  heart  is  dead,  my  senses  icy. 

"  Let  me  sleep  and  dream  of  him,  see  him,  hear  him,  speak  to 
him.  Come  to  me,  sweet  illusion !  Come  to  me !  He  also'  will 
sleep,  and  perhaps — no,  no  !  he  does  not  love  me. 

"November  20th. — I  have  received  a  .brilliant  offer  for  an 
engagement  in  Paris,  and  have  accepted  it.  I  am  like  those 
religious  martyrs  who  delight  in  increasing  their  own  tortures. 
I  will  go.  I  will  intensify  more,  if  possible,  all  my  memories. 
I  feel  a  kind  of  cruel,  bitter  pleasure  in  my  own  utter  misery. 

"  PARIS,  December  31st. — To  stand  again  upon  that  spot  and 
find  all  changed ;  unknown  faces  looking  from  the  windows, 
unknown  children  playing  in  the  garden — it  seems  a  dream  ! 
What  is  life  ?  Leaning  against  the  garden  gate  this  morning,  I 
bitterly  asked  myself  the  question.  It  is  this  poor  moment, 
which  is  already  flying  from  us ;  it  is  the  memory,  for  the  most 
part,  of  pain  and  disappointment — all  devoured  at  last  by  the 
dark,  fathomless  abyss  of  time,  which  silently  swallows  every 
thing.  It  is,  indeed,  as  Heredia  sublimely  calls  it,  '  a  delirium.' 
Love !  love  !  thou  art  the  only  reality  of  existence ;  the  rest  is 
but  a  vain  phantasmagoria,  that  flits  before  the  vision  and  is 
gone. 

"  I  remained  for  a  long  time  contemplating  that  house,  with  a 
feeling. of  exhausted  weariness;  and,  as  it  always  does  at  such 
times,  the  thought  came  to  me  :  '  If  I  could  be  folded  to  his 


244  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

breast  once,  knowing  that  he  loved  me,  what  a  blissful  thing  it 
would  be  to  die ;'  and  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  the  only  earnest 
wish  of  my  heart — the  only  vital  idea  of  my  brain. 

"January  2d. — I  am  deeply  saddened  to-night  by  the  history 
that  the  Doctor  related  to  me.  Poor  girl !  separated  from  hirn 
she  loved  by  a  cruel  fate ;  doubtful,  even,  if  she  were  still 
loved,  yet  finding  in  her  own  heart  a  fidelity  that  defied  absence 
and  estrangement.  My  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  the  Doctor 
repeated  her  noble  words  :  '  Doctor,  you  know  that  I  am  alone, 
poor,  unaided ;  well,  the  other  day  I  had  a  dishonorable  but  yet 
brilliant  offer  from  a  man  of  wealth  and  position.  I  will  confess 
to  you,  spite  of  the  shame  it  causes  me,  that  for  one  single  in 
stant  I  was — not  tempted — but  I  conceived  the  possibility  of  ac 
cepting;  then,  with  the  bitterest  humiliation,  I  turned  from  the 
thought.  "No,"  I  said  proudly;  "it  has  pleased  Heaven  to 
deny  me  happiness,  but  I  will  deserve  it ;  and  though  I  may 
have  lost  it,  yet  I  will  never  cease  to  be  worthy  of  Albert's 
love."  ' 

"And  with  this  great  heart  she  died  at  last  of  want  and 
despair !  0 1  if  there  be  not  somewhere  a  recompense  for  'all 
these  unseen  tears,  these  silent,  wasting  agonies,  what  is  ex 
istence  but  a  bitter  cheat  that  we  must  curse  in  helpless — hope 
less  despair? 

"March  1st. — Angelo  is  in  London  !  How  my  heart  bound 
ed  when  I  touched  his  letter,  the  first  that  I  have  received 
directly  from  him  during  all  this  long  year !  Feeble  as  I  am 
from  long  illness,  I  must  hasten  to  him.  His  letter  is  calm 
and  grave,  but  full  of  gentle  tenderness.  He  says :  '  I  yearn 
to  see  you.  Come  to  me,  Naomi !  You  need  not  fear — it 
is  a  brother  alone  that  you  will  meet.  I  am  purified  from 
earthly  passion  ;  I  have  offered  my  heart  upon  a  higher 
altar,  and  it  has  been  accepted.'  I  believe  him — it  rejoices 
me  to  believe  him.  Dear  Angelo,  spite  of  the  one  absorbing 
thought  of  my  life,  he  holds  a  very  tender  place  in  my  heart. 
I  will  go  to  him  ;  I  may  find  comfort  with  him  now." 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

IT  was  a  still,  cool,  Sabbath  morn  in  London,  rather  an  early 
hour  for  church-goers ;  the  usually  thronged  and  busy  streets 
were  silent  and  deserted,  save  in  the  vicinity  of  a  Unitarian 
church,  standing  in  an  elegant  quarter  of  the  city,  into  which 
people  were  already  pouring  to  hear  the  young  missionary, 
Penar,  lately  returned  from  India,  whose  eloquence  had  electri 
fied  them  on  the  preceding  Sabbath. 

The  hour  for  the  commencement  of  service  was  approaching, 
when,  through  the  group  collected  about  the  door,  a  woman, 
dressed  with  elegance,  but  entirely  in  black,  and  whose  face  was 
concealed  by  a  heavy  lace  veil,  made  her  way  with  a  rapid  and 
rather  imperious  step.  The  church  was  already  so  full  that  it 
seemed  very  doubtful  whether  she  could  find  a  place ;  but  after 
standing  gazing  about  her  for  a  moment,  a  gentleman  politely 
offered  her  his  seat,  which  she  accepted  with  a  graceful  inclina 
tion  of  the  head. 

Some  one  rose  and  came  forward  in  the  pulpit,  and  there  was 
a  general  stir  and  turning  of  eyes  towards  it,  but  it  was  the 
grave,  middle-aged  pastor,  who  knelt  and  made  the  accustomed 
prayer ;  then  he  rose  and  drew  back,  and,  after  a  slight  pause, 
the  slender,  drooping  figure  of  the  young  missionary  came 
slowly  to  the  front.  The  veiled  lady  leaned  forward  with 
breathless  eagerness,  and,  could  the  surrounding  eyes  have 
penetrated  her  thick  veil,  they  would  have  seen  her  eyes  fill 
with  tears,  which  after  a  moment  rolled  unheeded  over  her  pale 
cheeks. 

Angelo  stood  in  perfect  silence  for  at  least  a  minute.  His  pale 
face  was  pervaded  by  a  kind  of  holy  tranquillity,  but  the  burn 
ing  lustre  of  his  dark  eyes  betrayed  the  repressed  fervor  of  his 


246  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

enthusiastic  soul.  At  last,  in  a  tone  full,  sonorous,  but  pure, 
soft,  and  melodious  as  a  harp-strain,  came  the  words,  "  If  ye  love 
me  keep  my  commandments." 

Strangely  unprefaced,  and  for  that  very  reason  sublimely 
impressive,  were  those  words  ringing  clearly  through  the  hushed 
church.  Then  he  spoke  at  length  of  the  spirit  of  Christ's  life 
and  teachings ;  of  the  subserviency  of  all  forms  to  the  divine 
idea  which  can  alone  animate  religion,  and  render  it  inseparable 
not  only  from  our  deeds  and  words,  but  from  our  very  thoughts. 

It  is  the  real  earnest  interior  striving  after  truth,  and  purity, 
and  love,  the  vital  elements  of  the  soul — the  fervent,  untiring 
efforts  of  the  chrysalis  to  find  its  hidden  wings  and  soar,  though 
for  a  time  it  be  condemned  to  drag  its  length 'upon  the  ground. 
For  this  we  have  Christ's  words  :  "  It  is  the  spirit  that  quicken- 
eth  ;  the  flesh  profiteth  nothing  :  the  words  that  I  speak  unto 
you,  they  are  spirit  and  they  are  life." 

Angelo's  enunciation  was  delightfully  distinct,  and  his  voice 
exquisitely  modulated.  He  warmed  into  enthusiasm,  and  his 
face  glowed  with  an  expression  that  was  almost  inspired ;  yet  it 
was  a  spiritualized  enthusiasm  that  partook  in  no  degree  of  the 
passion  and  vehemence  of  earthly  interests.  He  would  fain 
have  drawn  all  men  to  him  by  the  force  of  love  alone,  covering 
their  past  with  the  holy  mantl:;  of  charity,  and  hopefully  point 
ing  them  to  the  future. 

"  To  love,  and  pity,  and  pardon,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  these 
were  the  commandments  of  the  holy  exponent  of  the  Divine 
Will,  and  if  we  ground  our  faith  upon  these  principles,  we  may 
be  sure  we  are  obeying  him  who  consecrated  his  existence  to 
the  advancement  of  our  erring  humanity." 

The  congregation  stood  to  receive  the  blessing,  and  with 
a  last  glance,  sweet  and  sad,  that  seemed  to  embrace  them  all, 
and  consign  them  in  very  deed  to  the  care  of  Heaven,  the 
young  preacher  turned  away. 

Through  all,  the  veiled  lady  had  been  the  most  attentive  lis 
tener,  and  at  the  close,  so  profound  was  her  abstraction,  that  it 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  247 

was  not  until  politely  requested  to  make  way  for  those  further 
in  the  pew,  that  she  rose  with  a  slight  start,  and  passed  into  the 
broad  aisle.  So  great  was  the  throng  that  it  was  several  minutes 
ere  she  was  able  to  gain  the  street,  and  there  she  was  again 
forced  to  wait  the  turn  of  her  carriage.  The  coachman,  how 
ever,  hastened  this  by  some  adroit  manoeuvre;  and  entering 
the  carriage,  apparently  quite  unconscious  of  the  many  curious 
eyes  that  followed  her,  she  was  driven  rapidly  away,  taking  the 
direction  of  a  retired  quarter  of  the  city,  and  stopping  at  length 
before  a  handsome  but  unpretentious  looking  house. 

The  coachman  rang  the  bell,  and  the  door  was  opened. 

"  Ask  if  Mr.  Penar  is  at  home  now  ?"  the  lady  said,  from  the 
window. 

The  answer  was  that  he  had  just  returned,  and  was  in  his  own 
apartment,  to  the  right  upon  the  first  floor.  Before  the  sentence 
was  half  finished,  the  lady,  unclosing  the  carriage  door  herself, 
leaped  agilely  out,  ran  up  the  steps  and  through  the  hall,  and, 
seemingly  governed  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  threw  open  the 
door  designated  by  the  servant,  and  rushed  in.  The  young 
missionary  was  in  an  inner  room,  standing  beside  a  table,  on 
which  he  had  just  deposited  his  hat  and  papers.  He  looked  up 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the  sudden  opening  of  the 
door,  and  in  another  moment  Ns^mi  lay  sobbing  in  his  arms. 

The  quiet  servant  maid  discreetly  closed  the  door— the  bro 
ther  and  sister  were  alone. 


248  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ANGELO  was  a  little,  just  a  very  little  pale,  and  the  arms  with 
which  he  encircled  Naomi  trembled  almost  imperceptibly.  With 
this  exception  he  was  calm,  quite  calm  ;  and  a  father  might  have 
received  his  daughter  with  the  same  joyful  yet  tranquil  tender 
ness. 

But  Naomi  for  many  minutes  was  not  Naomi.  Her  bosom 
heaving  with  short,  gasping  sobs,  she  laid  her  head  on  Angelo's 
shoulder,  and  from  beneath  her  closed  eyelids  welled  fast  her 
bitter  tears — tears  wrung,  oh,  how  hard,  from  the  agony  of  her 
proud  heart ! 

He  drew  her  gently  to  a  sofa,  placed  her  upon  it,  and  seated 
himself  beside  her.  Then  he  tenderly  removed  her  bonnet  and 
cloak,  and  waited  quietly  till  her  emotion  should  subside.  She 
let  him  do  what  he  would,  her  pride  paralysed,  her  will  passive, 
docile  for  the  moment  as  a  child.  But  the  old,  governing  influ 
ence  of  her  life  came  back  with  a  great  revulsion  of  feeling. 
With  a  smile  of  disdain  at  her.own  weakness,  she  brushed  away 
her  tears  impatiently,  and  turning,  took  both  Angelo's  hands 
in  her  own. 

"  Do  you  recognize  your  sister,  Angelo  ?"  she  said ;  "  she 
whom  you  used  to  call  firm,  strong,  invulnerable?  The  sight 
of  you  after  our  long  separation,  the  thought  of  all  you  must 
have  passed  through,  the  remembrance  of — "  She  paused  with 
a  suppressed  sigh — "  all  the  past  overcame  me  for  a  moment, 
but  it  is  over  now.  Did  they  tell  you  that  I  was  here  early  this 
morning  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  had  but  just  entered." 

"  1  arrived  in  town  late  last  night,  and  came  here  the  first  thing 
to-day.  You  had  but  just  gone  out.  Then  I  hastened  to  the 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  249 

church,  and  heard  your  eloquent,  beautiful  words.    Angelo,  you 
are  worthy  to  be  an  apostle  of  Jesus." 

"  Worthy  only  in  my  zeal,  which  devotes  all  my  life  to  this 
one  object." 

"  And  you  have  found  happiness,  dear  brother  ?  Your  face 
would  seem  to  say  so." 

"  Peace,  Naomi ;  happiness  is  not  of  this  world,  at  least  not 
for  some  of  us." 

There  was  a  touch  of  unconscious  mournfulness  in  his  grave 
tone,  and,  though  in  no  wise  so  intended,  it  struck  Naomi  like  a 
reproach.  A  flush  went  to  her  brow,  and  then  left  her  pale 
again. 

"  For  how  long  are  you  here,  Angelo?" 

"  I  do  not  precisely  know  ;  for  some  months,  I  presume." 

Naomi  sat  for  a  minute  in  thoughtful  silence,  with  downcast 
eyes ;  then  she  said : 

"  Angelo,  if  I  should  say  to  you,  I  need  you;  do  not  leave 
me  while — while  I  need  you — could  you  grant  me  this — make 
me  such  a  sacrifice?" 

Over  his  face  there  played  a  smile  as  sad  and  wan  as  a  ray  of 
cold  winter  sunlight  on  the  snow,  and  it  was  answer  enough 
without  the  words  which  followed — words  spoken  very  quietly, 
indeed : 

"  Naomi,  you  know  that  there  is  nothing  that  you  could  ask 
me  that  I  would  refuse." 

"  Well,  then,  so  let  that  rest ;  we  will  speak  of  it  hereafter. 
Now,  tell  me,  how  is  it  that  I  have  received  no  letters  from 
you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  wrote  you  whenever  I  found  an  instant's 
time.  The  mails,  however,  within  the  last  year  have  been  irre 
gular,  and  this  probably  explains  it." 

Naomi,  caressingly  clasping  Angelo's  hand,  leaned  back  in 
her  seat,  and  was  silent  for  several  minutes ;  and  he,  with  hushed 
but  profound  sadness,  contemplated  her  pale,  worn,  changed 
face,  so  reft  of  its  old  healthfulness  and  witching  brilliancy  of 


250  NAOMI  TOERENTE: 

expression.  lie  would  not  pain  her  "by  speaking  of  it,  but  she 
had  already  read  his  thoughts  in  his  eyes! 

"  You  find  me  altered,  Angelo,"  she  said.  "  You  would  not 
wonder  if  you  could  know  how  I  have  dissipated  of  late; 
almost  always  after  the  performance  attending  a  ball,  or  some 
gay  supper,  and  going  to  rest  at  dawn.  I  am  just  recover 
ing  from  a  severe,  even  dangerous  attack  of  my  old  disease ; 
and  now  I  intend  to  be  very  quiet,  and  take  good  care  of  myself, 
or  rather  my  dear  brother  will  take  care  of  me.  I  do  not  care 
enough  for  myself  to  undertake  the  thankless  task." 

She  laughed,  a  forced  and  bitter  laugh,  and  rising,  paced 
abstractedly  up  and  down  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed 
her  seat,  saying : 

"  Speak  to  me  of  yourself,  Angelo.  Tell  me  all  that  has  hap 
pened  to  you  since  we  parted." 

"  There  will  be  time  enough  for  that  hereafter,  dear  sister. 
You  look  pale  and  exhausted.  Let  me  arrange  the  pillows  of 
the  sofa,  and  you  lie  down  and  rest  awhile.  No  one  will  come. 
You  will — will  you  not  ?" 

Naomi  was  in  truth  wearied,  and  she  yielded  after  a  little 
hesitation.  Angelo  covered  her  with  her  cloak,  noiselessly 
crossed  the  room  and  drew  the  blinds  a  little  closer,  and  then 
sat  down  by  the  great,  round,  baize-covered  table,  and  bent  assi 
duously  over  his  papers. 

The  room  was  perfectly  silent  for  several  minutes,  and  then 
Naomi's  gentle,  regular  breathing  indicated  that  she  had  fallen 
asleep.  Any  one  would  have  supposed  from  Angelo's  motion 
less  figure  that  he  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  occupation,  but 
there  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes,  and  all  his  being  centred  in  this 
one  aspiration  of  his  prayerful  heart :  "0  Lord !  let  not  that 
old,  fatal  delirium  take  possession  of  me  again !"  But  the 
temptation  to  look  upon  her  as  she  slept  was  irresistible;  he 
turned  and  contemplated  her  with  his  head  bowed  on  his  hand. 
O,  what  unutterable  melancholy  there  was  in  that  sleeping  face  ! 
The  marble-smooth  brow,  the  large,  statuesque  eyelids,  were  in 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  251 

some  inexplicable  way  mutely  eloquent  of  suffering.  As  An- 
gelo  gazed  upon  her,  such  a  feeling  of  reverence  stole  over  him 
that  he  could  have  fallen  on  his  knees  as  before  the  image  of 
some  holy  saint ;  and  he  had  need  to  pray  :  "  O  Lord !  let  not 
that  fatal  delirium  take  possession  of  me  again !" 


252  NAOMI  TOKRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

IN  a  delightful  part  of  the  environs  of  London,  combining  the 
advantages  of  town  and  country,  in  a  small  but  elegant  dwell 
ing,  the  brother  and  sister  took  up  their  abode.  Neither  spoke 
to  the  other  of  the  time  they  should  occupy  it,  or  of  plans  for 
the  future.  Angelo  silently  and  blindly  placed  himself  at 
Naomi's  disposition ;  and  Naomi  acted  from  the  unspoken,  per 
haps  unacknowledged  thought,  that  her  career  of  glitter  and 
triumph  was  finished. 

From  being  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  the  theme  of  every 
tongue  wherever  she  appeared,  she  passed  in  a  moment  into  the 
retirement  of  a  profoundly  solitary  and  unvarying  life.  She 
was  often  alone,  and  wrote  much ;  what,  she  said  not,  and  An 
gelo  never  asked.  The  piano  was  never  opened,  and  never  did 
one  delicious  note  of  melody  issue  from  her  lips.  In  the  even 
ing  she  would  wander  into  the  parlor,  recline  listlessly  in  a  great 
arm-chair  by  the  centre-table,  and  listen  to  Angelo  while  he 
read.  Sometimes,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  the  old  fire,  she  would 
rouse  and  talk  brilliantly  for  a  few  moments,  then  sink  again 
into  silence.  It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  Angelo, 
glancing  at  her  from  his  book,  saw  that  she  was  lying  back  in 
her  chair  quite  insensible.  With  the  aid  of  restoratives  she 
came  to  herself  in  a  few  minutes ;  but  this  occurrence  left  on 
Angelo's  mind  an  ineffaceable  conviction  that  her  health  was 
thoroughly  undermined.  As  the  summer  progressed,  these 
swoons  were  of  more  frequent  recurrence,  yet  she  would  see  no 
physician,  take  no  remedies.  "When  had  medicine  ever  cured 
these  fatal  chronic  maladies,  she  said.  The  disease  might  take  a 
favorable  turn  of  itself,  and  if  it  did  not,  why— and  her  sorrow- 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  253 

ful  glance  would  dwell  for  a  moment  on  Angelo,  and  then  seek 
the  ground. 

Very  frequently,  and  at  all  hours,  but  oftenest  beneath  the 
watching  stars,  he  would  find  her  on  the  veranda,  her  arms 
crossed  on  the  balustrade,  her  head  bowed  on  them,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  heavens,  quite  oblivious  of  all  surroundings. 

And  he,  so  patient  and  calm,  so  quietly  thoughtful  of  her 
always,  and  in  her  presence  cheerful  for  Tier  sake,  what  were  his  real 
feelings  ?  He  knew  not — cared  not  to  know ;  turned  resolutely 
from  every  thought,  save  that  in  her  hour  of  sorrow  it  was  his 
to  strive  to  make  her  hidden  grief  less  bitter  to  be  borne.  Yet 
he  was  but  mortal,  and  though  he  might  not  listen  to  his  heart, 
he  could  not  annihilate  it ;  and  this  life  wore  upon  him.  It  was 
visible  only  in  the  martyr's  look  which  his  face  gradually  as 
sumed  ;  in  that  rare,  hopeless  smile,  so  sweet,  so  sad,  that  no 
young,  fresh  heart  could  have  seen  it  without  tears.  Yes  ;  there 
are  greater  martyrs  in  the  'world  than  those  who  have  perished 
at  stakes — who  bear  their  cross  walking  erect  and  with  a  firm 
step,  and  wear  their  crown  of  thorns  with  a  smiling  lip. 

An  ideal  love,  cherished  in  silence  and  suffering,  why,  what 
an  utter  absurdity  it  would  seem  to  the  honest,  practical  people 
of  the  every  day  world !  They  can  understand  easily  enough  a 
rational  affection  based  upon  some  solid  foundation;  and  for 
them  a  foundation  has  its  firmest  cement  in  self;  but  they  look 
down  with  the  condescending  pity  of  superior  minds  on  these 
dreamers,  these  livers  upon  illusions,  who  get  enthusiastic  at 
sunlight,  and  moonlight,  and  flowers.  "Be  practical,"  they 
will  tell  you ;  "  grasp  the  realities  of  life  and  give  up  your 
dreams."  Poor  owls !  calling  the  darkness  light,  and  the  no 
thingness  of  materialism  existence,  it  is- you  who  are  the  dream 
ers  ;  it  is  you  who  live  upon  illusions ;  for  your  realities  are  the 
veriest  shadows.  Your  ledger,  the  most  important  thing  of  life 
for  you,  invisibly  decays  before  your  eyes ;  your  proudly  tower 
ing  counting-houses  crumble  insensibly  towards  their  final  dust ; 
and  when  you,  your  petty  interests  and  ambitions,  your  very 


254:  NAOMI  TQRRENTE  : 

names,  shall  have  passed  into  oblivion,  love  will  still  smile  upon 
the  world  in  all  the  glory  of  its  immortal  youth  ;  and  the  sublime 
Ideal  will  still  allure  its  votaries  into  the  beautiful  and  myste 
rious  land  that  stretches  into  infinitude. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  255 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IT  was  on  his  return  one  cool  autumn  day  from  a  visit  of  mercy 
to  some  of  the  poor  outcasts  of  London,  that  Angelo  found 
Naomi  pacing  the  parlor  with  a  step  that  had  regained  some  of 
its  old  buoyancy.  Dusty  and  fatigued  with  a  long  ride,  he 
would  have  passed  at  once  to  his  apartment,  but  the  unwonted 
animation  of  her  face  as  he  caught  sight  of  it  arrested  him,  and 
he  stopped  at  the  door. 

"  Angelo !"  She  approached  with  a  quick  step  and  drew  him 
into  the  room.  "  What  do  you  suppose  has  happened  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Evidently  something  agreeable,  dear.  But  don't — pray 
don't  get  excited." 

"  The  impresario  of  the  new  opera  troupe  found  me  out,  how, 
I  am  sure  I  can't  imagine,  and  came  this  morning  to  see  me. 
There  is  going  to  be  a  reunion  of  all  the  great  artistes,  to  sing 
an  opera  for  the  benefit  of  some  charitable  association,  and  he 
so  urged  me  to  join  it  that  I  consented." 

"Consented!  Naomi,  are  you  wild?  You  to  undergo  the 
exhausting  fatigue  of  an  opera,  when  only  two  days  ago  you 
fainted  at  going  rapidly  up-stairs !" 

"  It  will  do  me  good.     This  life  of  inaction  is  killing  me." 

"  Think  better  of  it,  I  beg  of  you ;  think  better  of  it.  In 
your  state  of  health  it  would  be  the  height  of  temerity." 

"  Great  Heaven  1  what  is  my.  life  ?"  she  cried  bitterly.  "  To 
drag  this  weary  sense  of  suffering  through  days  of  monotony, 
is  tliis  existence  ?" 

A  vivid  flush  crimsoned  his  pale  face,  and  with  a  movement 
of  impetuosity  rare  in  him  he  walked  rapidly  away. 


256  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

Not  a  minute  had  elapsed  ere  the  thought  of  his  unselfish 
love,  his  abnegation  of  every  wish  of  his  own  for  her  sake,  had 
rushed  upon  her,  and  before  he  had  entered  his  room  her  hand 
was  on  his  arm,  and  she  said,  falteringly,  breathless  from  the 
rapidity  with  which  she  had  ascended  the  stairs : 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  brother !  pardon  me  1" 

He  kissed  her  brow. 

"  Naomi,  you  will  not  sing  ?" 

"I  have  promised.  I  want  to — I  must.  I  know — I  feel — 
that  it  will  not  hurt  me.  Come !  be  willing — be  pleased." 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  it  is  in  vain  for  me  to 
oppose  it.  But  remember,  whatever  the  consequences  be,  it  was 
against  my  will." 

"  /  will  take  the  responsibility  of  all  consequences.  And  now 
for  my  preparations,  for  I  have  but  little  time.  To-day  is 
Friday ;  Monday  the  opera  comes  off.  0,  I  feel  like  my  old 
self  again  !"  and  she  ran  gaily  away. 

He  stood  for  minutes  gazing  in  the  direction  where  she  had 
disappeared,  and  when  at  last  he  turned  away,  his  eyes  were 
blind  with  sorrowful  tears. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  257 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

FOR  three  days  the  little  quiet  house  was  completely  revolution 
ized.  What  with  rehearsals  at  home  and  at  the  theatre,  and  the 
visits  of  tradespeople  and  modistes,  Naomi  had  not  a  moment 
disengaged;  and  she  seemed  to  have  recovered  all  her  old 
strength  and  energy,  never  manifesting  the  slightest  weariness. 
Angelo  watched  her  anxiously,  and  as  he  marked  her  reanimated 
face,  and  the  elasticity  of  her  rapid  movements,  a  consoling  hope 
revived  within  him,  and  he  thought  that  perhaps,  after  all,  she 
was  right,  and  that  something  to  do,  something  to  win,  might 
bring  her  out  of  the  morbid  state  in  which  she  had  pined  for  so 
long. 

Nevertheless,  when  Monday  night  came,  and  he  found  him 
self  actually  waiting  for  Naomi  in  the  parlor,  he  could  not,  with 
all  his  self-command,  master  his  agitation.  He  was  pale,  tre 
mulous,  and  unnerved  when  she  entered,  composed  as  possible 
in  manner,  but  with  the  peculiarly  brilliant  and  quick-moving 
eye  that  indicates  great  inward  excitement. 

They  took  their  places  in  the  Berlin,  and  rolled  at  a  rapid 
p&ce  towards  the  city.  The  September  night  was  warm,  and  the 
carriage  top  was  down.  Naomi  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  with 
her  eyes  dreamily  fixed  on  the  sky. 

"  You  used  to  love  the  stars,  Angelo,"  she  said  thoughtfully, 
at  last. 

"  And  do  still,  Naomi." 

"  I  love  them  more  than  ever.  Glorious  stars !  They  seem  to 
me  to  belong  to  an  order  of  things  different  from  any  other — to 
appeal  more  directly  to  the  spiritual  part  of  our  nature. 
They  cool  and  refresh  me  as  does  the  shade  after  the  noon-day 

glare." 

17 


258  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

Angelo  looked  at  her  upturned  face,  so  spiritually  beautiful, 
averted  his  head  with  a  profound  though  noiseless  sigh,  and  was 
silent. 

At  her  dressing-room  door  he  pressed  her  hand  and  left  her, 
taking  his  seat  in  the  stage-box  she  had  designated  as  the  one 
designed  for  him,  and  waiting  with  a  quick-beating  heart  to  wit 
ness  Naomi's  performance  for  the  first  time  for  many  long  years. 
It  seemed  to  him  in  his  impatience  that  the  orchestra  would 
never  form,  and  then  that  the  overture  would  never  finish ; 
however,  it  did  at  length  positively  come  to  an  end,  and  the 
curtain  slowly  rose.  The  opera  was  La  Traviata,  selected  by 
the  management  as  one  of  the  favorite  operas  of  the  day,  and 
also  as  one  of  Naomi's  greatest  rdles. 

The  elegant  toilette,  the  effect  of  the  stage  lights,  and,  more 
than  all,  the  gay,  reckless  abandon  of  Violetta's  manner,  so  com 
pletely  transformed  the  prima  donna  that  Angelo  with  difficulty 
recognized  his  sister,  and,  insensibly  carried  away,  he  forgot  for 
the  time  his  haunting  fears  for  Naomi's  safety,  to  follow  with 
intense  interest  the  sorrowful  part  she  so  admirably  embodied. 

Never  in  her  palmiest  days  had  La  Castadini  sung  or  acted 
with  more  power  and  passion  ;  never  had  she  moved  with  more 
bewildering  grace ;  never  had  her  face,  worn  with  long  suffering, 
been  more  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  character. 

Nor  had  she  ever  received  a  prouder  ovation  than  that  which 
awaited  her  at  the  close  of  the  opera.  Again  and  again  she  was 
summoned  before  the  curtain,  covered  with  flowers,  and  greeted 
with  tumultuous  plaudits. 

Through  his  unlimited  sympathy  with  her,  Angelo  compre 
hended  for  the  first  time  the  intoxication  of  a  successful  artiste's 
life.  He  went  to  seek  her  altogether  excited  out  of  his  habitual 
calmness;  and  it  was  only  the  sight  of  her,  bringing  back  with 
a  rush  the  recollection  of  the  necessity  of  self-command  on  his 
part,  that  subdued  him  into  his  usual  self-possessed  quietude. 

But  Naomi — O !  it  was  quite  in  vain  for  Angelo  to  gently 
strive  to  check  her.  All  the  way  home  she  must  talk,  and  talk 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  259 

so  excitedly,  too,  sitting  erect  with  the  old  proud  lift  of  the 
head,  with  the  old  light  of  triumph  in  her  eyes,  the  old  vivid 
flush  upon  her  cheek.  Angelo  could  only  listen  in  an  agony  of 
anxiety,  and  urge  the  coachman  to  drive  fast.  They  reached 
home  in  a  few  minutes.  Angelo  leaped  out,  and  would  have 
taken  Naomi  in  his  arms,  but,  resting  her  two  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  she  bounded  lightly  to  the  ground. 

"  No,  I  do  not  need  your  arm,  dear  brother,"  she  said,  smil 
ing.  "  I  am  well — never  better ;"  and  with  the  regal  step  of 
other  days  she  passed  into  the  house. 

At  the  farthest  right  corner  of  the  little  parlor  a  round  table 
was  laid  for  supper,  and,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  the  general 
appearance  of  the  room  recalled  in  every  detail  the  night  of 
Lola's  nocturnal  visit  in  Paris.  Naomi  saw  it ;  it  struck  her 
like  a  blow ;  and,  growing  pale,  she  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
threshold ;  then,  with  an  impetuous  movement,  throwing  off  her 
opera  cloak,  she  commenced  agitatedly  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  murmuring  passion 
ately  : 

"  This  very  opera,  too.    0  !  it  recalls !  it  recalls !" — 

Angelo  approached,  and  gently  drew  her  hands  from  her 
face : 

"  Naomi,"  he  said,  with  mild  firmness,  "  you  must  not  do  this. 
If  I  were  nothing  to  you,  I  would  not  permit  you  to  conspire 
against  your  own  life  in  this  reckless  way.  Come !  sit  down  at 
the  table  ;  take  something  to  cool  and  refresh  you,  and  afterwards 
a  light  supper.  Come !  yield  to  some  one  wish  of  mine,  I  beg." 

She  went  and  took  her  place  at  the  table,  but  with  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy,  like  one  in  a  dream.  Angelo  was  preparing  for 
her  a  glass  of  orange- flower  water,  when  she  hastily  filled  her 
wine  glass  from  a  bottle  of  sherry  standing  near,  and,  ere  he 
could  even  remonstrate,  drained  it  off.  He  looked  at  her  with  a 
face  of  the  blankest  amazement,  for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  seen  Naomi  touch  wine. 

"  O  !  what  a  rash  thing,  Naomi,"  he  cried,  reproachfully,  "  in 


260  NAOMI   TORRENTE  : 

your  excited  state  to  drink  that.  Do  you  wish  to  kill  your 
self?" 

"Do  not  talk  to  me,  Angelo.  I  am  burning — parched — 
breathless." 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him  as  she  said  these  words,  and 
some  papers  lying  on  the  corner  of  the  table  caught  her  eye. 

"  What  is  this,  Angelo  ?"  she  said. 

"  Your  Madrid  papers.  Let  me  put  them  by  till  to-morrow. 
They  should  not  have  been  put  here." 

"  I  will  give  them  to  you  in  one  moment.  I  only  want  to  see 
one  thing." 

She  opened  the  first  paper  as  she  spoke ;  found  "  Colonial 
Items ;"  ran  her  eye  rapidly  over  it ;  and,  tossing  it  aside, 
picked  up  the  other.  Scarcely  had  her  eyes  rested  on  it  when, 
with  a  smothered  exclamation,  she  bent  eagerly  forward.  It 
was  the  following  paragraph  that  her  starting  eyes  read,  or 
rather  devoured : 

"  Don  Justo  Ameno,  who  was  for  a  short  time  last  year  the 
idol  of  our  saloons,  has,  we  learn  by  Havana  papers,  just 
espoused  Dona  Dolores  Silva,  his  beautiful  young  fiancee,  who, 
accompanied  by  her  parents,  made  with  him  the  tour  of  the 
Continent,  and  lent  for  a  little  while  the  charm  of  her  grace  and 
beauty  to  Madridlena  society." 

Naomi  carried  both  hands  to  her  heart,  and  sprang  to  her 
feet  as  though  thrown  up  by  electricity.  Her  bosom  heav 
ed,  and  her  lips  parted  with  a  desperate  'effort  at  a  cry ;  but 
no  sound  issued  from  her  lips.  For  a  moment  she  stood  thus, 
white  and  rigid,  with  fixed  and  distended  eyes,  and  then  she  fell 
heavily  into  Angelo's  outstretched  arms.  He  lifted  her  as 
though  she  had  been  a  child,  and  bore  her  rapidly  to  a  window ; 
there,  resting  one  foot  upon  a  chair,  he  bathed  her  brow  and 
temples  with  cologne,  and  held  to  her  nostrils  a  bottle  of  strong 
salts ;  for,  owing  to  the  frequency  of  these  swoons,  restoratives 
were  always  at  hand. 

"  Oh,  Naomi  I"  murmured  he,  aloud,  "  rash,  foolish  woman  ! 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  261 

How  could  you  pay  so  little  heed  to  me  ?  And  how  could  I 
be  so  weak  as  to  yield  to  you?" 

Minutes  passed,  yet  neither  the  freshly  blowing  air,  nor  the 
infinitude  of  remedies  which  Angelo  tried  in  quick  succession, 
produced  any  effect.  Heavier  and  heavier  grew  her  form  in  his 
arms ;  lower  and  lower  drooped  her  head ;  and  with  a  hurried, 
fearful  look  he  saw  now  that  her  eyes  were  half  open,  and  that 
the  eyeball  was  quite  immovable.  Panic-stricken,  frantic,  he 
dashed  from  him  the  little  flask  of  cologne,  clasping  passion 
ately  the  insensible  form,  and  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  such 
'sharp  agony  that  it  might  almost  have  roused  the  dead  : 

"  Naomi !  Naomi !  Naomi  I  " 

But  there  was  no  response.  The  unquiet  heart  that  ne'er 
kept  time  with  life,  but  thrilled  and  throbbed  with  longings 
unfulfilled,  had  stilled  for  aye. 


262  NAOMI  TOERENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THERE  is  a  solemn  hush  upon  the  room.  The  golden  autumn 
sunlight  streams  in  coldly  here,  and  even  the  soft,  perfumed 
air  from  the  garden  conveys  in  some  inexplicable  way  the 
sickening,  desolating  impression  of  death. 

How  still  she  lies !  What  perfect  rest  is  hers  at  last ! 
The  pure  white  robe  clings  lovingly  to  the  rounded  sym 
metry  of  her  limbs,  and  there  is  a  tender  half  smile  on  the 
monumental  face,  where  records  of  the  past  can  still  be  traced. 
Thou  fervent  heart,  that  kept  thy  steady  trust  in  Good,  and 
held  thyself  unspotted  from  the  world  !  Thou  lonely  pil 
grim  to  a  far-off  shrine,  cloud-hidden  from  thy  guiding  star, 
and  spent  upon  thy  rocky  path,  thou  hast  sunk  down  to 
rise  no  more  on  earth,  still  clasping  to  thy  breast  a  precious 
relic  of  thy  cherished  faith ! 

There  is  a  solitary  mourner  kneeling  there  ;  as  still,  as 
white,  almost  as  calm  as  the  fair  dead.  Perchance  the  tears 
have  frozen  at  his  heart  ;  perchance  he  prays. 

Why  should  we  weep  when  the  soul-wearied  fall  into  that 
dreamless  sleep  that  knows  no  earthly  waking  ?  Is  it,  indeed, 
so  sad  a  thing  to  die?  Mourn,  if  thou  wilt,  for  those  who 
die  with  hands  outstretched  to  pluck  illusion's  flowers,  but 
mourn  not  that  the  gnawing  pain  of  life  has  ceased  to  prey 
upon  a  tired  heart.  0 !  it  is  better  far  to  lie  in  this  majestic, 
marble  calm. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN.  263 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IN  Naomi's  private  secretary,  standing  in  her  bed-room,  Angelo 
anxiously  sought  some  written  indication  of  her  last  wishes;  and 
he  had  rightly  divined ;  there  he  found  it.  There  was  a  large 
roll  of  papers,  directed  to  himself,  containing  her  will;  in  which 
(as  he  afterwards  learned)  she  made  him,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  legacies  to  faithful  servants,  unconditional  heir  of  all  her 
fortune ;  then  a  sealed  parcel,  bound  up  with  a  letter,  directed 
to  Don  Justo  Ameno,  Havana ;  and  lastly,  some  closely  written 
sheets  of  paper,  and  a  letter  for  himself;  all  these  silent  pre 
parations  proving  how  strong  must  have  been  within  her  the 
premonition  of  her  speedy  death. 

To  Angelo  she  wrote  that  she  fulfilled  her  promise,  and  left 
for  him  a  brief  record  of  her  agitated  life.  She  thanked  and 
blessed  him  for  his  love  and  goodness  to  her ;  and  craved  at  his 
hands  two  last  favors:  the  first  and  most  important,  to  bear 
himself,  to  its  address,  the  letter  and  parcel  directed  to  Don  Justo 
Ameno ;  the  second,  to  have,  at  whatever  cost,  her  remains  burned, 
not  buried. 

Angelo  knew  well  Naomi's  peculiar  opinion  on  this  subject, 
for  he  had  often  heard  her  express  her  utter  horror  of  the  custom 
of  delivering  over  to  the  loathsome  corruption  of  the  cold,  dark 
grave,  the  form  that  is  so  loved  and  cherished  in  life.  He  him 
self  took  the  same  view  of  the  matter;  and  it  was,  therefore, 
with  all  the  more  eagerness  that  he  undertook  the  accomplish 
ment  of  her  wish.  It  was  an  easily  arranged  affair ;  the  under 
taker's  hesitancy  vanished  at  sight  of  a  purse  containing  two 
hundred  pounds  in  gold,  and  he  agreed  to  take  upon  himself 
the  management  of  the  matter.  As,  however,  this  disposition  of 


264:  NAOMI  TORRENTS: 

Naomi's  remains  must  necessarily  be  kept  a  profound  secret,  it 
was  requisite  that  the  funeral  in  the  ordinary  form  should  take 
place.  Angelo  conducted  this  as  privately  as  possible,  but  the 
news  of  the  great  singer's  death  had  already  spread  ;  a  lamenta 
tion  had  gone  up  from  every  people  that  had  ever  been  enchant 
ed  by  the  impersonations  of  her  genius,  and  the  carriages  of  the 
aristocracy  of  London  followed  her  body  to  the  vault  where  it 
was  deposited. 

A  note,  slipped  silently  into  Angelo's  hand,  informed  him 
that  he  would  be  waited  for  in  a  wood  five  miles  from  the  city, 
at  an  hour  before  dawn  the  next  morning. 

It  was  the  darkest  part  of  the  night  when  Angelo  mounted 
his  horse,  and  riding  at  a  gallop,  reached  the  spot  designated,  a 
few  minutes  before  the  appointed  time. 

He  found  it  to  be  a  little  field  in  the  middle  of  a  thick  wood, 
which  had  once  been  an  orchard,  but  which  had  been  abandon 
ed  as  unfertile,  and  the  trees  cut  down.  It  was  a  fit  place  for 
the  purpose,  for  there  was  a  perfect  wall  of  foliage  about  it, 
forming  a  sufficiently  large  circle  to  prevent  any  fear  of  a  con- 
flagration  among  the  treea 

Angelo  dismounted  and  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree.  The  rays 
from  a  dark  lantern,  shining  full  on  some  forms  seated  on  the 
ground,  showed  him  that  the  undertaker  and  his  assistants  were 
here  before  him.  The  former  rose,  and  after  respectfully  return 
ing  Angelo's  salutation,  inquired  if  the  gentleman  would  like  to 
see  the  preparations.  Angelo  bowed  assent,  and  the  man,  hold 
ing  up  his  lantern,  revealed  a  pile  of  wood  very  compactly  arrang 
ed  in  the  centre  of  the  field  ;  then,  walking  a  little  apart,  pointed 
out  the  bier,  covered  with  a  massive  black  pall. 

Angelo  felt  as  if  an  iron  hand  had  grasped  his  throat,  and  he 
struggled  several  minutes  before  he  could  steady  his  voice  to 
speak.  He  should  like  to  preserve  his  sister's  ashes.  How  could 
this  be  effected  ?  The  -man  answered  that  the  coffin  was  iron  ; 
that  iron  props  might  be  arranged  so  as  to  raise  the  body  with 
in  reach  of  the  flames,  and  that  the  ashes,  falling  into  the  coffin, 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  265 

might  be  afterwards  collected.  Angelo  signified  his  approbation, 
and  his  wish  that  the  matter  might  be  conducted  as  speedily  as 
possible,  and  then,  with  his  cloak  wrapped  closely  about  him, 
and  his  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes,  sought  the  remotest  corner  of  the 
field,  and  sat  down  in  the  heavy  shadow  of  a  tree.  For  several 
minutes  he  could  discern  nothing,  and  heard  no  sound  save  th^* 
light  crackling  of  the  ignited  faggots  ;  but  at  last  vivid  tongues 
of  flame  shot  upwards,  and  crowning  the  funeral  pyre,  roseate, 
life-like  in  their  bright  reflections,  he  saw  for  one  moment  that 
face,  that  form,  and  realized  that  he  looked  upon  it  for  the  last 
time.  With  a  choked  cry  he  fell  prostrate,  face  to  earth,  biting 
the  dust,  and  madly  tearing  his  hair  in  an  agony  of  despair;  then 
his  chest  heaved  with  sobs  that  would  not  be  suppressed,  and  a 
torrent  of  tears  streamed  from  his  eyes.  He  lay  there  how  long 
he  knew  not,  never  caring  to  rise  again,  weeping  such  heart 
broken  tears  as  a  child  might  shed  upon  its  mother's  grave. 

Some  one  touched  him  at  length,  and,  dizzy  and  half  blind,  he 
got  upon  his  feet.  The  first  faint  light  of  day  had  stolen 
around ;  the  undertaker  stood  before  him,  holding  in  his  hands 
a  little  bronze  urn.  He  gave  it  to  Angelo ;  and  as  he  turned 
away,  rough,  callous  creature  as  he  was,  he  passed  the  back  of 
his  hard  hand  over  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  golden  glow  in  the  east,  and  streaks  of  crimson 
on  the  distant  horizon  ;  the  world  awoke  and  smiled  in  its  joyous 
beauty ;  but  leading  his  horse,  with  slow  step,  and  bowed  head, 
his  anguished  heart  still  pouring  out  its  bitter  waters,  Angelo 
went  upon  his  way,  unmindful  of  all  things  save  the  little  urn 
he  carried  next  his  heart.  Alas !  his  house  "  is  left  unto  him 
desolate !" 


266  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN  the  fair  American  isle,  which  its  great  poetess*  beautifully 
and  justly  calls,  "  Pearl  of  the  Sea,  and  Star  of  the  West," 
Justo  was  at  home  in  his  lovely  quinta,  a  little  distance  from 
the  city  of  Havana,  in  the  part  known  as  the  Cerro. 

Before  his  house  the  fields  lay  green  and  smiling  in  the 
verdure  of  Cuba's  eternal  spring,  bounded  in  the  distance  by 
a  blue  line  of  mountains,  and  dotted  here  and  there  by  graceful 
swaying  palms. 

There  was  a  gay  party  of  people  collected  on  the  piazza 
one  bright  Octobei  afternoon.  Lola,  beautiful  and  joyous  in 
her  perfected  happiness,  was  talking  and  laughing  with  some 
companions  of  her  girlish  days ;  and  Justo,  leaning  over  the 
balustrade,  was  conversing  with  a  pretty  young  Cuban  lady 
who  had  just  returned  from  a  tour  in  Europe.  In  the  course 
of  conversation  she  happened  to  speak  of  her  visit  to  Venice, 
and  at  the  sound  of  the  name,  Justo  falling  into  sudden 
silence,  allowed  her  to  rattle  on  uninterruptedly,  unobservant 
of  the  cloud  that  had  swept  over  his  face,  and  the  melancholy 
abstraction  of  his  gaze,  which  expressed  the  profound  sorrow  of 
the  associations  aroused  within  him.  Standing  thus,  and  gazing 
down  the  road,  he  watched  mechanically  for  several  minutes 
the  approach  of  a  man's  figure,  dressed  in  black,  and  seemingly, 
from  the  peculiarity  of  his  costume,  a  priest.  He  advanced  with 
a  slow  step,  pausing  frequently  to  observe  the  quintas,  as 
though  seeking  for  some  place.  As  he  neared,  he  removed  his 
hat,  and  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his  heated  brow,  and 
Justo's  wandering  thoughts  were  instantly  called  back.  That 

*  La  Avellaneda 


THE  HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  267 

pale,  spiritual  face,  surrounded  by  long  locks  of  wavy,  fair  hair 
— where  had  he  seen  it  ?  So  perfectly  familiar  it  was  to  him,  so 
positive  was  his  conviction  that  he  knew  it  well,  that  it  hardly 
occasioned  him  any  surprise  when  the  stranger  stopped  within  a 
few  steps  of  him,  and  said,  in  English : 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me,  sir,  if  this  is  the 
residence  of  Don  Justo  Ameno?" 

"  /  am  that  person,  sir,  at  your  service,"  Justo  answered,  in 
the  same  language. 

"  Will  you  pardon  the  interruption,  and  allow  me  a  few 
minutes'  private  conversation?  My  business  is  pressing,  and 
my  time  limited ;  otherwise  I  would  defer  the  interview  to  a 
more  suitable  hour." 

Justo  took  his  hat  from  a  chair  beside  him,  politely  begged 
his  companion  to  explain  to  Lola  the  cause  of  his  absence, 
and  opening  the  iron  gate  that  separated  his  house  from  the 
road,  conducted  the  stranger  into  the  park  that  encircled  the 
dwelling. 

They  walked  on  till  the  sound  of  voices  on  the  piazza  came 
more  faintly  to  their  ear ;  then  the  gentleman  said : 

"  My  name,  sir,  is  Penar ;  personally  unknown  to  you,  my 
mission  here  is  to  deliver  to  you  a  letter  from  a  person  you  once 
knew — from  my  sister." 

Justo  turned  towards  him  a  perplexed  and  questioning  face, 
and  repeated  slowly : 

"Your  sister,  sir'/" 

"  My  sister ;  La  Castadini." 

It  flashed  upon  Justo  like  lightning.  He  paused,  and  impe 
tuously  arresting  Angelo's  progress,  cried,  with  sudden  vehe 
mence  : 

"Tell  me,  I  beg,  were  you  not  in  Paris  with  La  Castadini 
about  two  years  ago — two  years  last  month  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  my  sister  was  ill,  and  I  passed  a  few  days  with 

•t  )) 

n6r. 

"  And  you  are  her  brother,"  Justo  went  on,  rapidly— eagerly : 


268  NAOMI  TORRENTE  : 

"  pardon  me — her  own  brother  ? — there  is  so  little  resemblance, 
and  it  interests  me  much  to  know." 

The  hesitancy  of  a  slight  struggle  was  visible  in  Angelo's 
face,  and  there  was  a  short  pause  before  he  answered ;  at  last 
he  said : 

"  No,  sir ;  not  her  brother  by  blood ;  but  yet  her  brother,  and 
nothing  more" 

Justo  drew  a  long,  deep  breath,  as  though  an  insupportable 
weight  had  been  lifted  from  him  ;  a  joyous  light  broke  from  his 
eyes,  and  for  an  instant  a  glow  of  hope  and  love  banished  the 
cold,  haughty  calmness  of  his  face.  He  did  not  even  try  to 
conceal  his  impatient  anxiety  as  he  said : 

"  You  bring  me  a  letter  from  her,  sir ?  Where  is  she?  How 
is  she?" 

Angelo  turned  full  upon  him  his  mournful  gaze. 

"  The  letter  that  I  bear,"  he  said,  "  was  written,  I  think,  but 
a  very  little  while  before — "  he  paused,  checked  by  Justo's 
startled  and  anguished  face ;  and  then,  after  a  moment,  went 
on,  "  before  her  death." 

No  word,  no  sound  issued  from  Justo's  white  and  compressed 
lips.  With  an  unconsciously  imperious  gesture,  he  signified  to 
be  neither  spoken  to  nor  followed ;  and  walked  rapidly  to  a  tree 
a  few  yards  distant,  against  which  he  leaned  with  averted  face. 

Silently  contemplating  him,  Angelo  felt  some  new  feeling 
stirring  at  his  heart. 

This  was  the  man  that  Naomi  had  so  ardently,  so  faithfully 
loved :  on  whom  she  had  poured  out  so  lavishly  her  unbound 
ed  devotion. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments,  Justo  approached.  He 
was  very — very  pale. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  there  are  times  when  we  cannot 
hide  what  we  feel.  Will  you  have  the  kindness  to  deliver  me 
her  letter  ?" 

Still  bound  to  the  little  parcel,  Angelo  drew  it  from  an  inner 
pocket,  and  placed  it  in  Justo's  hand ;  then  he  said,  quietly  : 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  WOMAN.  269 

"My  task  is  fulfilled,  sir.  I  will  now  take  my  leave  of 
you.'* 

"With  a  rapid  glance  Justo  indicated  the  little  rear  gate  of  the 
park,  within  a  few  steps  of  them,  and  then  with  a  sorrow  too 
deep  for  words  breathing  from  his  face,  silently  held  out  his 
hand. 

It  is  riot  given  to  man,  however  brave  and  noble  he  may  be, 
to  be  altogether  superior  to  humanity  ;  and  Angelo  looked  away, 
and  made  no  responsive  movement. 

"  In  her  name,  sir,"  Justo  said  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice :  "In 
her  name  !" 

Ah !  what  was  there  that  Angelo  could  have  refused  if  asked 
of  him  in  her  name  1  Their  hands  clasped ;  and,  in  a  long,  stea 
dy  look,  their  eyes  met.  They  understood  each  other  well. 
Friends  they  might  not  be  ;  yet  in  her  name  and  above  her  grave 
their  hands  might  meet.  With  a  low  inclination  of  the  head, 
and  an  unconscious  look  heavenward,  Angelo  passed  through 
the  gate,  and  his  retreating  form  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance. 

Quietly  and  rapidly  Justo  sought  the  stables,  equipped  and 
mounted  a  horse,  and  bidding  a  little  slave  tell  his  mistress  that 
unexpected  business  summoned  him  away,  gave  the  rein  to  his 
horse,  and,  ere  many  minutes,  was  in  the  midst  of  a  dense  tropi 
cal  forest.  •  There  he  dismounted,  tied  his  horse,  and  throwing 
himself  on  the  ground,  slowly,  tremulously  opened  her  letter, 
and  read  : 

"  I  have  been  brave  and  strong  in  life.  I  myself  may  say  it, 
since  I  have  borne  in  silence  the  martyrdom  of  a  long,  unshar 
ed  agony ;  "but  in  the  face  of  death  I  am  weak ;  I  cannot 
die  in  silence — I  cannot  bear  this  secret  with  me  to  the 
grave.  Justo,  I  have  so  much  suffered  that  it  has  worn  out  my 
strength,  exhausted  my  courage,  prostrated  my  pride ;  and  I 
who  have  always  so  fiercely  disdained  pity,  could  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  cry  out :  '  Pity  me  !  Pity  me  !' 

"  Justo,  I  love  you.     How  can  I  write  such  words,  knowing 


270  NAOMI   TOEKENTE  : 

that  one  day  your  eyes  will  rest  on  them,  and  not  die  of  shame  ? 
And  yet  there  is  a  thrill  of  bliss  in  expressing  for  the  first  time 
the  feeling  so  long  imprisoned  in  my  heart.  Do  not  despise  my 
weakness  as  I  myself  despise  it — it  is  not  life's  but  death's  con 
fession,  for  when  you  read  it  I  shall  have  passed  beyond  the 
laws  and  judgments  of  this  world.  Think  what  it  must  have 
been  to  bear  about  in  crowds  and  solitudes,  for  these  two  end 
less  years,  the  burning,  haunting  thought  of  this  idolatrous 
passion,  which  neither  time,  nor  absence,  nor  change  of  place 
or  association,  could  kill,  or  even  for  one  brief  moment  lull 
to  sleep. 

"  God  gave  me  an  impassioned  heart ;  it  was  for  you  to  deve 
lop  all  its  mighty  capabilities  of  devotion.  The  consciousness 
of  the  possession  of  your  love — this,  and  this  alone,  would  have 
been  to  me  the  most  perfect  of  elysiums.  I  could  have  lived 
upon  the  thought  to  all  eternity,  and  craved  no  higher  bliss. 
Oh !  never  did  a  wearied  child  pine  for  its  mother's  bosom  as  I 
have  pined  to  find  rest  in  your  love ! 

"  Oh !  the  hours  that  I  have  passed  within  the  last  six  months — 
alone,  mute,  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  this  hopeless  pas 
sion,  so  jealously  guarded  from  every  human  eye — when  it  has 
seemed  to  me  that  my  ardent  sighs  should  traverse  space  to  reach 
you,  and  that  my  yearning  heart,  which  so  imperiously  demand 
ed  you,  should  magnetically  impress  you  with  its  pain  ! 

"  Do  these  words  seem  to  you  unwomanly,  Justo  ?  Alas ! 
they  are  poor,  weak,  utterly  powerless.  I  would  that  there  were 
some  way  that  I  might  make  you  comprehend  all  that  is  in  my 
soul ;  but  it  may  not  be.  I  might  write  on  for  ever,  filling  pages 
with  vain  repetition  of  words,  but  I  could  never  image  forth  more 
than  a  faint  reflection  of  what  I  so  intensely  feel.  I  can  only 
say  that  my  love  for  you  has  been  the  most  engrossing  senti 
ment  of  my  existence,  and  that  it  will  be  the  last — last  memory 
that  will  float  away  from  me  in  my  dying  hour. 

"  I  am  ill — dying,  I  know ;  and  I  know  it  with  joy.  We  all 
live  for  something.  Love,  duty,  or  ambition  must  be  our  object 


THE   HISTORY   OF   A  WOMAN.  271 

in  existence.  /  have  nothing.  Fame  and  wealth  are  mine 
already ;  and  I  have  no  sacred  dutj-  to  impose  on  me  the  obli 
gation  of  living.  It  is  true  there  is  one  charge  I  might  take 
upon  myself,  were  I  stronger,  more  generous ;  but  alas  I  all  my 
strength  has  been  exhausted  in  wrestling  with  fatality  ;  and 
there  is  nothing  here  now  save  a  longing  wish  for  repose.  I 
err — pride  still  lives;  pride,  the  last  thing  that  will  die  in  me  ; 
and  could  it  be  my  fate  to  live  on  eternally,  tortured  eternally, 
as  I  have  been  since  you,  Justo,  first  crossed  my  path,  I  should 
know  how  to  endure,  impassible  to  all  save  to  the  eye  of  Omni 
potence. 

"  I  pray  not — I  have  never  prayed  for  the  annihilation  of 
my  love.  All  that  is  true  must  be  indestructible,  immortal  ; 
and  would  it  not  cause  me  humiliation  and  self-contempt  to  be 
able  to  think  with  calmness  of  what  had  caused  me  so  many 
pangs  ? — to  know  that  all  my  pain  had  been  founded  upon  an 
illusion  ? 

"  I  send  back  to  you  the  handkerchief  you  dropped  in  my 
gondola  at  Venice.  I  have  worn  it  in  my  bosom,  and  some 
times,  but  very — very  rarely,  dared  to  press  it  to  my  lips.  Now 
— even  now,  as  I  write  these  words — I  hold  it  to  my  cheek  for 
the  last  time,  and  let  my  burning  tears  fall  on  it. 

"  You  know  all  now.  Think  of  me  sometimes  with  respect 
and  gratitude.  Offer  to  my  memory  these  sentiments  which, 
living,  I  could  not  with  dignity  accept.  Remember  me  as  when 
you  first  saw  me — gay,  brilliant,  happy  ;  and  if  a  tear  fall — why 
it  will  not  be  unworthy  of  you,  Justo. 

"  Adios  !  Ah !  you  were  right ;  it  was  indeed  para  siempre. 
I  could  wish  to  bless  you ;  to  hope  that  Heaven  may  grant  you 
happiness  even  in  the  arms  of  another — but  there  is  something 
in  my  heart  that  rebels,  and  I  cannot  be  a  hypocrite.  Adios  ! 

Adios  ! 

"  NAOMI  TORRENTE." 

He  laid  her  letter  to  his  heart ;  he  held  it  to  his  lips  and 


272  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

covered  it  with  devouring  kisses;  and  then  it  fell  from  his  cold 
and  trembling  hand.  Freezing  the  transports  of  his  ardent 
love,  the  thought  came  to  him  that  these  words,  warm,  palpitat 
ing  with  the  passion  that  had  penned  them,  were  all  that  was 
left  on  earth  of  this  great  heart's  illimitable  love — all — all. 


THE   HISTORY   OF  A  WOMAN. 


CHAPTEE  XXX. 

Two  days  had  passed,  and  Justo  had  not  returned  to  his  home. 
Lola,  half  frantic,  had  sent  for  his  father  and  her  own  parents ; 
ignorant  as  they  were  of  whither  he  had  gone,  it  was  a  difficult 
matter  to  make  inquiries,  and  so,  spite  of  their  own  anxiety,  they 
strove  to  reassure  the  poor  young  wife  with  the  hope  that  he 
had  been  unavoidably  detained  by  business,  and  the  heavy 
showers  that  had  fallen.  Lola  did  try  to  comfort  herself  with 
these  suppositions,  but  towards  the  evening  of  the  second  day 
anxiety  made  her  so  ill  that  she  was  unable  to  rise  from  her  bed. 
She  had  just  sunk  into  an  unquiet  sleep,  when  her  maid  rushed 
in,  crying  out  in  a  loud  voice  that  the  master  had  come.  Lola 
had  barely  time  to  sit  up  and  pass  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  when 
the  curtain  at  the  head  of  the  bed  was  swung  hastily  aside,  and 
Justo  entered. 

His  dress  had  evidently  been  drenched,  and  had  dried  again 
upon  his  person ;  his  hair  and  beard  were  disarranged ;  and 
his  face  pale,  haggard,  almost  wild.  Lola  motioned  to  her 
maid  to  leave  the  room,  and  then  held  out  her  arms  to  her 
husband: 

"Justo,  where  have  you  been?  What  has  happened  to 
you?" 

He  sat  down  by  the  bed,  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and 
answered : 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you,  Lola,  with  false  and  absurd 
explanations.  I  have  suffered  a  great,  fearful  sorrow ;  but  I 
have  borne  it,  and  the  worst  is  over.  I  can  tell  you  nothing 
more  about  it ;  you  would  regret  it  if  I  did." 

Love  has  wondrous  intuitions.     Lola  shivered,  and  burst  into 

a  passion  of  tears. 

18 


274:  NAOMI  TORRENTE: 

"  It  is  nothing  that  will  take  you  from  me,  Justo  ?  You  love 
me — do  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said  sadly ;  "  I  love  you,  Lola ;  and  I  will  make 
you  happy  if  I  can.  I  will  not  break  your  heart,  as — "  He 
checked  himself  and  rose  with  his  old  air  of  firm  will. 

"  Think  no  more  of  this,"  he  said.  "  I  must  go  and  change 
my  dress,  and  invent  some  plausible  excuse  for  my  absence. 
Yes — yes,  be  content.  I  am  yours." 

He  held  her  to  him  gently,  passionlessly,  as  though  the  ardor 
of  his  nature  had  died  within  him;  and  left  her,  child-like, 
smiling  and  happy  again ;  he  going  his  way  with  slow  step, 
and  grave,  pale  brow,  years  older  than  when  he  had  last  seen 
her. 

V.  ,v,  AL  Mt  Jt  -V,  JUL 

j?  TV*  W  7T  w  •K  *3f 

******* 

Time  rolls  on,  and  teaches  us  at  last,  rebellious  children  that 
we  are,  life's  hard  lesson — submission.  Justo  lives,  and  fulfils 
as  best  he  may  life's  duties ;  yet,  as  the  true  mission  of  all  sor 
row  and  disappointment  here  is  to  teach  us  to  look  onward  and 
upward,  he  finds  in  one  eternal  remorseful  regret  a  higher  deve 
lopment  of  his  spirituality.  He,  on  whom  fortune  has  lavished 
all  her  choicest  gifts ;  he,  who  is  riveted  to  earth  by  so  many 
links,  steals  away  from  the  gay  circles  of  which  he  is  the 
idol ;  steals  from  the  side  of  his  beautiful,  fond  wife  ;  to  gaze 
alone  into  the  unfathomable  depths  of  his  glorious  tropical 
heaven,  and  wonder  if  there  be  not  indeed  a  mysterious  beyond, 
where  he  may  meet  again,  and  there  with  no  barrier  between, 
the  one  rapturous  love  of  his  life. 

And  Angelo  ?  He  follows  still  his  Master.  It  is  his  task  to 
comfort  the  unhappy,  to  raise  up  the  bowed,  to  pity  and  try  to 
elevate  the  wicked.  And'  for  the  rest,  what  matters  it  whether 
his  feet  tread  the  burning  sands  of  the  Meridian,  or  the  icy 
plains  of  the  North  ? — all  his  earthly  hopes  and  affections  are 
inurned  with  Naomi's  ashes.  He,  too,  looks  above,  and  hopes. 


THE  HISTORY  OP  A  WOMAN.  275 

Alas  I  what  can  he  hope  ?  He  himself  knows  not.  He  clings, 
and  trusts  blindly,  that  somewhere  may  be  solved  what  might 
almost  be  said  to  be  the  one  great  problem  of  existence,  since  it 
contains  within  itself  so  many  others — the  great)  wondrous 
mystery  of  love. 


THE   END. 


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